


Autumn Leaves

by Ofb23



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ofb23/pseuds/Ofb23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never slept well surrounded by so many reminders of autumn. He didn’t think Athos would understand, and the explanation- well the explanation wasn’t something d’Artagnan thought he’d every willingly speak of.</p><p>A "d'Artagnan's past comes back to haunt him" fic. d'Artagnan centric, post season one, AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fanfiction during season 1. It’s AU, set after season one and has taken me over a year to complete.  
> It started out with a different premise, and lay dormant for a while whilst I wrote other stories, before I began to work on it again, changing parts of the story completely in the process. Apart from being the longest fiction I have written in the Musketeer verse, it has become a labour of love to finally complete it (as I don’t like posting without at least finishing the story in draft first and my hard drive is testament to the fickle nature of my muse!)  
> As always, it’s d’Artagnan based, contains whump, angst and h/c.  
> So hope you enjoy! I will try and update regularly, work schedule and editing process permitting.  
> Ria

**Autumn Leaves**

_He never slept well surrounded by so many reminders of autumn. He didn’t think Athos would understand, and the explanation- well the explanation wasn’t something d’Artagnan thought he’d every willingly speak of._

 

Prologue

The young boy was surrounded by smoke. It choked him, tearing at his throat as he desperately tried to pull in air to empty lungs. He screamed again as fire crackled and leaped all around him, licking at his ankles, the skin burning. He struggled against the bindings that held him tight, his cry joining another's, until the air rang with sound of fire and the screaming. It was reaching his knees now, he could feel the intense heat as the flames licked at the skin on his legs, the skin beginning to smell of burnt meat that made him gag. He kicked out with his legs but couldn’t escape from the fire. He tried in vain to free his arms only to feel like the rope held him tighter. He had no air left now, could no longer even scream and as the flames climbed higher. He knew he was going to burn.

He looked up, craning his neck to see his mum but his look caught on the man stood beyond the flames, staring impassively at him. The brown eyes caught his and held, the mirror of his own he had been told at one point. He hoped not; the eyes of a monster were staring back at him. He would have begged but he couldn’t drag in anymore air. He had begged the man earlier. The young child had screamed and fought and cried and begged but the words had not been for himself. Even at a young age, his wishes were not for himself, he had begged for his mother to be let go.

But the child’s pleas had been ignored. He’d been bound at his mother’s side, his mother mute with shock and horror until the flames had started. He tore his eyes away from the monster now, sought his mother at his side, looking up at her. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at him, still and silent now against the pyre that held her. He could see the fight had left her and he wanted to scream at her to keep going, keep fighting. But she looked at him and he could see that she had nothing left to fight with anymore. The young boy was silent and still as he wrenched his look back to the man in front of him. The man who had ignored his mother’s begging. Who had ignored his. Who simply saw them as an inconvenience, now. A problem to be got rid of. The promise of silence and exile not enough. Charles and by extension his mother were no longer necessary, and they had to die. Charles looked once more at the monster stood watching, tried to open his mouth to beg him once more, unable to understand how he could stand and watch them burn. The only sound that hitched from his mouth a desperate, pitiful “father"

 


	2. Chapter one

Chapter One

He startled awake, automatically swallowing back the cry of pain, resisting the urge to cough and vomit as the smoke that had clogged in his throat was replaced by the crisp autumn air. His legs burned under his trousers, dream and reality entangling too much for d’Artagnan to work out what was real, what was simply a dream, even as he pulled in desperate lungful’s of air. D’Artagnan forced himself up from his bed roll, walking on legs that weren’t burning, but were, that felt as weak and as wobbly as a new born fawn’s.  He walked to try and remind his legs that they still worked. He breathed deeply to remind his lungs that they weren’t choking on soot. Walked until he didn’t feel like emptying his guts up. Till d’Artagnan knew where he was and when he was again.

But the remnants of the dream had gripped his attention too much; d’Artagnan had forgotten that he wasn’t in his room, that they had camped out on the road last night, and therefore he wasn’t alone. He’d also forgotten about the man on watch till Aramis cleared his throat. Startled, d’Artagnan looked over at him, cradling his pistol like he would a new born, the metal flashing dull in the light of the full moon. ‘Ok?’ Aramis asked when d’Artagnan met his eye.

D’Artagnan remembered the smell more than anything. The smell of the wood logs turning to charcoal, the smell of burning flesh as screams pierced the air… he forced the memories away, sniffed long and hard the fresh night air, and nodded, not trusting his voice at that moment. He glanced around, grateful that at least Porthos and Athos appeared undisturbed.

Dreams had been haunting his sleep for weeks now, growing in intensity. This was the first time though he’d woken to that awful pain and smell of burnt flesh and horrified screams, unable to at first distinguish dream from reality. The dream itself was nothing new. At one point they had occurred nightly, but his dad had been there, to soothe and protect and they’d eventually been replaced with better dreams, better memories crowding out the horror filled ones. His dad’s murder had brought new material into his dark nights, the two memories occasionally joining forces to wrench a scream from his lips.

Normally on the nights spent in the company of his brothers he didn’t dream. He was usually good at waking up before the dreams really got going. And when they were outside, the unusual noises of nature usually kept him in light enough slumber to keep them at bay. Autumn was swiftly announcing her arrival, though, and the leaves were too red. The last few nights he’d barely let himself drift into a light doze, the reminders of autumn too much. But tiredness had finally won out, and the dreams had inevitably surfaced.

Forcing his mind to the present, the memories back into the past, d’Artagnan drifted towards the horses. His own, a black gelding greeted him warmly, snuffling hopefully at his jacket pockets as d’Artagnan scrubbed a hand over his nose. Behind him he heard Aramis rise to his feet, fought the instinct to hide his face in the horses’ mane.

‘Bad dream?’

D’Artagnan briefly ran fingers through the forelock before gaining the courage to look properly at Aramis. ‘Yeah.’

‘Tell me about it?’

The burning smell threatened again; d’Artagnan risked leaning closer to the horse, filling his nostrils with the equine scent. ‘I don’t remember all of it.’ He said, somewhat truthfully. There were sections of memories that had never appeared, something his dad had always been glad of, though his dreams sought to fill the time lapses in different ways. ‘My father…’ he added, letting it hang, not lying exactly but knowing to what conclusion Aramis would leap.

A hand rested briefly on his shoulder, squeezing in support. ‘Night is when we are all at our most vulnerable.’ Aramis spoke from his own experiences, d’Artagnan knew, fighting the instinct that wanted to shrug out of Aramis’s hand as much as it wanted to lean in closer.

He stood motionless. ‘Isn’t it just.’ D’Artagnan couldn’t help the bitter tone though he tried to tone it back.

‘You should sleep more.’ Aramis suggested.

‘You were due to wake me soon anyway. You might as well sleep.’ D’Artagnan suggested instead.

Aramis studied him, d’Artagnan fighting the urge to turn and hide away. Finally the man nodded, stifling a yawn and sharing a ruthful smile at the action. ‘Make sure you wake Athos.’ Aramis said, waiting for d’Artagnan to nod before turning away. It wouldn’t be the first time d’Artagnan had “forgotten” to wake the next man on rota. ‘I mean it.’ Aramis added in a harsh whisper, turning back briefly, finger up in warning before he stepped away to his bedroll, seemingly asleep in seconds.

D’Artagnan never had any intention of waking Athos. He didn’t see the point, there was little chance he was going to sleep again tonight. Aramis predictably rolled his eyes when he worked it out, glaring hard at d’Artagnan but thankfully the work of breaking camp distracted any conversations, all of them looking forward to getting home.

**

Their last day on the road of the long, boring mission was quiet, and they reached the city gates by mid-afternoon. D’Artagnan wondered if he would get a predictable lecture on their return, but the relief of being home seemed enough of a distraction by itself, and after 10 days in each other’s company the four men scattered to their own pursuits. It wouldn’t last long, no doubt tomorrow would see them seeking each other’s company again, but even men as close as they were needed time apart occasionally.

D’Artagnan didn’t feel like venturing out. The dreams combined with the crush of autumn left him on edge, as it always did, exhausting in the fight to keep in the present and not retreat to the past. Though he didn’t have too, he used the afternoon and early evening to see to the horses. He had always found horses relaxing, and even now, despite the disparaging comments it seemed to draw from certain older, more condescending musketeers, he often helped the stable boy. The work was mostly mindless, rubbing the horses down before checking all of their feet carefully while the sun still shone bright, aware that even a small cut could lame a horse if left untreated. Giving their legs a proper rub and massage to work through the many hours they had trodden over the past few days, before allowing them all to the quiet stable to rest properly. Relaxed and exhausted, the nights on the road catching up with him, d’Artagnan’s sleep that night was free of the dreams that lingered into wakening.

**

The morning brought the first proper storm of autumn to the city, the wind scattering reddened leaves, decorating the floor of the garrison in a carpet of bronze. The rain belted down in the early morning but was chased away by the wind, leaving the ground saturated and covered with slippery wet leaves, the sky grey and threatening close above.

Sat at their normal table, d’Artagnan pushed his hair from his face for the umpteenth time, only for the wind to capture it, whipping it back, making him wonder why he bothered. He was steadily eating through a bowl of steaming oats when he was joined at the table. D’Artagnan was surprised to see Athos, looking unusually awake despite the early hour, with his own bowl of oats. ‘You’re early.’ D’Artagnan commented, belatedly realising he sounded quite accusing.

Athos merely seemed amused. ‘Sleep beat the liquor last night.’ He studied d’Artagnan briefly, nodding at whatever he saw. ‘As it did for you I believe.’

D’Artagnan smiled, resisting quite heroically, he thought, the urge to roll his eyes. ‘Training day?’ he asked instead.

‘Probably.’ Treville normally allowed a few days of rest at the garrison, training days as the musketeers referred to them, after long missions before putting them back on palace duty. How much training got done varied, but when Athos was involved, it usually meant more than other musketeers seemed to manage.

Aramis and Porthos joined them at the table, already arguing noisily about some comment Porthos had made on Aramis’s night activities. They were interrupted before d’Artagnan could enquire, Treville appearing on the balcony and calling for all to muster.

Scooping up the last mouthful of oats d’Artagnan hopped up to stand between Athos and Aramis, standing loosely at attention as Treville descended. Treville walked the lines, making a few comments on state of dress, state of fitness, a few particularly disparaging remarks on the tightness of one man’s uniform around his midriff to barely concealed snorts of laughter. He got to them, stopping before their group, offering a quiet well done on their successful mission. They must have done something right, Treville didn’t offer his any advice on haircuts, fashion, or general life management to any of them. D’Artagnan felt strangely bereft without the usual words.

‘Ok men. A few missives to deliver in the city.’ Treville announced from the stairs once he had finished. He directed a few groups of men to the deliveries, assigning those on palace duty with him afterwards. ‘Rest of you, training.’ About to turn out, the men were held in place with the next announcement: ‘Remember, Friday is the King’s birthday, and you will all be on duty over the weekend. Rest up now, as you won’t have any then.’ The slight smile on Treville’s face was distinctly knowing, mirrored by many of the musketeers around d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan had still been a recruit last year and had been used mainly as a message boy , largely into the surrounding towns and away from Paris. He’d missed the celebrations, but had heard the rumours. A parade, banquets, hunts, dances… the celebrations lasted days, and with various locations and functions, stretched the King’s Guards with the complexity of ensuring the security for it all.

‘Ah, the annual social gathering of France’s finest.’ Aramis reminisced as they retook their seats.

‘Aye’ Porthos agreed, ‘what a pleasure it is to watch them consume their weight in food and drink, faithfully guarding them from their own excessiveness.’

‘Come Porthos, they are all, of course, merely submitting themselves to their king.’ Aramis playfully admonished.

‘Right, of course’ but whatever Porthos was about to say on the subject was interrupted by Athos.

‘We are meant to be training.’

‘Athos, you are the only musketeer who actually thinks a training day means training.’ Aramis moaned on a sigh.

‘No he’s not.’ Porthos said with a good natured laugh and wave of his hand at d’Artagnan, who had been getting eagerly to his feet. D’Artagnan didn’t care, he always had the energy for training. ‘Suck up.’ He added to d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan merely shrugged, letting the ribbing roll over him. He forgot about them as he and Athos headed to the targets, practicing with throwing knives before moving onto pistols. Athos would never give less than his best, and d’Artagnan was far too competitive to let anyone beat him at anything, though he eventually had to concede by the smallest of margins. They took their rest, out of bullets and needing a drink, taking seats back at the table. D’Artagnan looked around, locating Aramis and Porthos with a group of recruits on the other side of the courtyard. It appeared that the two were getting their entertainment taking bets on which recruit would win in various activities. Athos also looked over, but as they appeared to be helping the recruits as much as betting on them, he let them be.

‘Your sleep has been disturbed over the past week.’ Athos said abruptly.

Startled by the sudden statement, d’Artagnan took a moment to speak. ‘I have never found sleeping outside that restful.’ He attempted a casual shrug though the movement felt jerky.

‘This was more than normal.’ Athos said.

D’Artagnan didn’t know how to answer. He never slept well surrounded by so many reminders of autumn. He didn’t know if he had the words to explain, and the explanation… the explanation wasn’t something d’Artagnan had ever willingly spoken about aloud. He was rescued from having to answer by Aramis and Porthos returning to the table. ‘We are going to the tavern.’ Aramis announced. ‘Drinks are on Porthos.’

‘What? Why?’ Porthos demanded.

‘You won all my money.’

‘And how does that translate into me buying you drinks?’ Porthos demanded.

Aramis flung a hand to his chest in a dramatic pose. ‘You would leave your poor friend to suffer from thirst?’

D’Artagnan got to his feet, glad enough for the distraction to clap Aramis cheerfully on the shoulder ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’ He said. ‘If it will be enough to shut you up.’

Aramis, who had been smiling gratefully at the younger musketeer, turned on him with a shocked expression. ‘And only the one drink, mind.’ D’Artagnan carried on before Aramis could say anything, his tone airy. ‘I doubt you deserve more’

He walked towards the gates, Porthos laughing heartily as he caught him up, clapping him none too gently on the shoulder. Athos frowned, not satisfied with the answer d’Artagnan had given and suspicious of the almost desperate redirect. But he was wise enough to know there was little point in perusing the line of questioning with an audience. And if d’Artagnan wasn’t willing to talk, Athos knew he wouldn’t get anywhere. He stood and followed them to the tavern.

**

Their day off, predictably, flew by. Too soon, the four found themselves back in the garrison, assembled for morning muster, Treville bypassing any inspection to issue orders for the king’s birthday celebrations.

‘A good many people will be arriving at the castle this afternoon. Tonight is the main banquet; 200 guests are expected to be in attendance. The Red Guard will be on the main entrance and the gates. We will be in the main banquet room and helping with patrol of the palace and grounds. You will remember your duty at all times; I don’t need to tell you how difficult such an event is to guard.’ He began to pair the musketeers up, giving out specific roles and rotations. D’Artagnan was paired with Athos, on a rotation through the main banquet hall with Porthos and Aramis, and another 2 pairs of musketeers. They were to be in the royal palace an hour from when they were dismissed, warned to expect long hours and little rest over the coming days. On the bright side, d’Artagnan considered as he readied his weapons and loaded pistols, at least it would distract Athos from probing about his sleep habits for a few days.

The palace was already in a controlled state of chaos when the four arrived. Servants rushed around, loaded with bottles of fine wine, baskets of bread, braces of pheasant and rabbit, armfuls of linin and silver and cutlery. D’Artagnan had never seen the palace so busy and found himself watching the spectre. ‘Come on.’ The laugh in Aramis’s tones told d’Artagnan that he had been distracted enough to miss his name being called.

‘Sorry. Never seen the palace this busy.’

‘This is nothing. Wait till the guests arrive.’ Porthos told him.

‘Come- we need to check the security.’ Athos said, turning and leading the way.

The planning by the Red Guards was substandard enough to have them busy rethinking the whole plan. Treville approved the changes, much to the Red Guard’s chagrin.

The afternoon dragged, but once the various persons of importance began to arrive, their wives or mistresses on their arms, all dressed in splendid robes, the atmosphere turned electric, and the musketeers got busy keeping the peace.

The king and queen were announced, fashionably late, bringing the seated audience to their feet to show their appreciation to their hosts. D’Artagnan and Athos were stationed behind the royal couple for the first course, standing to attention, eyes forward seeing everything and nothing.

D’Artagnan quickly got bored. The fancy noblemen in their fine linins, the woman dressed in colourful silk were something to behold, but the conversation that d’Artagnan wasn’t trying to hear was dull. Even the vast amount of alcohol being consumed didn’t particularly liven up the party, and only being rotated around the ballroom saved d’Artagnan from the tedium. He didn’t find it easy standing still, though he had had a lot of practice in his short time with the musketeers. He much preferred the missions, being active; even hunting with his majesty was better.

He counted the fine swords on display, bejewelled grips catching the light from the torches as their owners moved. He wondered how many of them were able to use the weaponry they displayed so impressively at their side. Looking at some of the owners, he strongly doubted the rapiers and swords had ever seen much use.

The impressive meal dragged through 8 courses. As the clock approached midnight, the long tables were efficiently cleared to one side and the dancing began, the music at least a distraction. D’Artagnan and Athos were stationed by the large double doors leading to the ballroom. As the music continued more couples began to leave than entered. The king and queen left not much later, the red cheeked king looking happy, his happiness clearly making those around him sigh with relief.

As was almost inevitable with too many men sure of their own importance, and copious amounts of alcohol, a loud shouting match broke out in the hallway, distracting Athos and d’Artagnan as shouting led to the distinctive sing of shiny unused swords being drawn. Neither hesitated, or bothered pulling their own swords, stepping between the two arguing noble men, each facing a man and pushing down the raised swords. D’Artagnan looked up at the idiot who had been posturing, ready with a quiet word to try and defuse the situation, or to enlighten the fool of how cold the chatelet would be that night, when his brain caught up with the man in front of him and he froze.

Golden brown eyes stared at him, ignoring the desperate screams as they watched the flames grow higher. Golden brown eyes that warped and wavered in the heat, clouded out by the intense smoke. Golden brown eyes that were impassive as he had explained how Charles wasn’t needed anymore, you see, that he was unnecessary. The sound of music and conversation muffled and drifted away replaced by the spit and hiss of fire, the unnatural screams of pain. Burning heat licked painfully at his legs. The overwhelming stench of burning flesh and smoke filled his nostrils making him want to heave. The eyes of the monster, face creased in a permanent scowl, stared back at him, d’Artagnan helpless to look away.

A hand on his shoulder, squeezing uncomfortably tightly grounded him, sound returning in an unsteady trickle as the nobleman before him huffed in irritation, puffing up his chest and loudly complaining as he turned to his exit.

‘D’Artagnan!’

His heart beat painfully fast in his chest, tripping along as it pushed adrenaline through his veins, fear making him suddenly hot and cold at the same time.

Athos voice was harsh in his ear. ‘D’Artagnan!’

He blinked, banishing memories with difficulty as he turned to Athos, limbs feeling heavy as concrete as he tried to bring himself back to the present. ‘Are you with me?’ Athos demanded, hand still on d’Artagnan’s shoulder still squeezing sharply, a hint of worry in the tone.

‘Yes.’ His voice was too loud, too shrill. He cleared his throat, feeling smoke clog it once again. ‘Yes.’


	3. chapter two

**Chapter two**

 

_‘Are you with me?’ Athos demanded, hand still on d’Artagnan’s shoulder still squeezing sharply, a hint of worry in the tone._

_‘Yes.’ His voice was too loud, too shrill. He cleared his throat, feeling smoke clog it once again. ‘Yes.’_

Athos didn’t believe him for a second. He’d fought side by side with d’Artagnan for over a year and had never seen him freeze, or seen the colour drain so completely from his face. For a moment Athos had looked for a wound, but finding none he had turned his attention to the nobleman d’Artagnan stood in front of, the sword held up, d’Artagnan palming the blade in gloved hand in a mockery of a silent fight.

Quality velvet in a deep blue made stylish and top of the line jerkin and breaches. They encased a tall figure, the paunch around his middle testament to the finery’s of life. Red broken veins making him appear ruddy in the face from the excess of food and alcohol. Perhaps mid sixties, if Athos had to age him, though it didn’t look like life had been particularly kind to him. A frown of displeasure creased his forehead. Studying the face a little more, the brown eyes, what looked like a permanent scowl etched into the skin with wrinkles, Athos felt a slight tug of recognition. He was certain he’d never seen the nobleman around the court before, but there was a hint of familiarity in the face he couldn’t explain.

The nobleman had been as silent as d’Artagnan, staring at the young man in deep concentration, almost as pale as the Gascon, when he suddenly seemed to become aware once again where he was. He huffed loudly, puffing up his chest and loudly exclaiming his disapproval at being stopped as he turned on his heel and walked away. It seemed mostly for show and Athos ignored him, turning his attention on d’Artagnan. ‘Who was that?’ he demanded, worry for the sudden change in d’Artagnan unintentionally hardening his tone. He still had a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, unsure if he was keeping d’Artagnan from running after or away from the nobleman.

D’Artagnan didn’t acknowledge the question. ‘d’Artagnan!’ Athos said deliberately harshly, having to repeat himself before d’Artagnan finally looked his way, the movement sluggish.

D’Artagnan’s eyes finally seemed to focus properly, meeting Athos’s. There was something akin to desperation that d’Artagnan was quickly trying to hide in the depths. ‘I…I have to get back.’ D’Artagnan stammered, and turned, dislodging Athos’s hand effortlessly as he stepped towards the doors. ‘Have to get back.’ Athos heard him mutter, sounding to Athos as if he was trying to remind himself of that fact.

~~

It was nearing two am when Treville came to begin dismissing them back to the garrison. Athos beckoned him over with a single look, ostensibly still surveying the lingering guests in the ballroom as he dipped his head towards Treville, whispered in his ear.

D’Artagnan told himself he was being paranoid, that Athos wasn’t talking about him. But Treville’s look came up and caught his, studied him as he simply nodded to whatever Athos had said, stepping away, indicating for d’Artagnan to follow him. He was dismissed back to the garrison along with half of the musketeers, Athos, Aramis and Porthos amongst those staying to round up the last guests and see them to their bed.

D’Artagnan wanted to argue with the order, though he knew it would be useless. Wanted to stay with his brothers with a desperation he hadn’t felt in a long time. He didn’t want to be alone, he didn’t want to go back to his silent room and face the night by himself. He didn’t want to see those eyes, the eyes that had forever haunted his dreams.

Didn’t want to have the chance to contemplate the fact that he was here. Here in Paris. Here in the city. He couldn’t think, didn’t want to think. Whilst the logical part of him knew it a lie, his unconscious thoughts whispered that he was being sent away, that he was unneeded, unwanted, that he wasn’t good enough. That they knew, they had found out from just the look, that Athos didn’t want him because he had found out the truth. He looked up at Athos, but Athos was watching the ballroom and ignored him.

~~

Athos didn’t watch d’Artagnan leave. Couldn’t. Whatever had happened between the strange duke and d’Artagnan, had left d’Artagnan looking washed out and more exhausted than he had that morning. He knew it was the right thing to do to ask Treville to send d’Artagnan back to the garrison for rest. Knew it was the right thing to do, but yet it felt very wrong. There was something going on that Athos didn’t know, and he didn’t like it, didn’t understand it and it made him want to keep d’Artagnan close, exactly where he could see him. To protect him.

However, Athos had to stay, the arrangement made for him to be the senior guard now that Treville was leaving, and more than anything, Athos knew that the coming days were going to be long and exhausting and d’Artagnan needed to rest. Logic had to win over compassion.

He hadn’t been able to bring himself to watch though. He knew without turning around the look that would be on d’Artagnan’s face. The look of hurt at being set aside. It was there every time, however quickly d’Artagnan worked to cover it. When he was sent away from them, be it on mission or not the look was there. Athos had thought he knew of why the fear remained, however much d’Artagnan hid it, the fear of being abandoned. Had subtly worked, at first without even really realising it, to include d’Artagnan in things, assuming that the loss of his father, his only family had left the young man cast aside in a strange city. Anyone would flounder in such circumstances.

Now Athos wasn’t so sure. There was something else, something deeper, older than those events that was twisting d’Artagnan up. He had known it for a while, had witnessed it in the restless sleep, the haunted look during the mission. Now he felt completely at a loss, not knowing where the man fit in, but knowing that he was someone significant.

‘Who was that? Aramis asked, sidling up to Athos as he watched the last few party guests determined to finish all the alcohol that was on offer. Athos should have known that the events wouldn’t go unnoticed by the pair, looking on his other side to acknowledge Porthos.

‘I don’t know. Can you see him?’

Porthos spotted him in the main hall, pointing out with a subtle nod of the head. Athos glanced over, again feeling that familiar hint of recognition frustrating him. He stood with a younger man, perhaps 18, the gestures indicating a less than peaceful discussion between the two.  ‘His son?’ Aramis guessed after a glance at the pair, the hair colour and tone marking them of the same stock.

Athos shrugged, looking around for Gilbert. Gilbert was a veteran of the musketeers having served almost as long as Treville. Athos wandered over to him, knowing that if anyone would know, Gilbert would be the one to share the knowledge almost painlessly.

They exchanged pleasantries for as long as Athos could bear, before he gestured to the corner where father and son were getting increasingly animated. ‘Know who that is? Haven’t seen him before.’

Gilbert looked around, his expression surprised when he identified who Athos was pointing out. ‘The Duke of Toulouse? No wonder. Haven’t seen him at court in years.’

‘Why the appearance now do you think?’ Athos asked.

Gilbert tilted his head, considering the pair as Athos watched the doorway behind him, the pretence at least of the ever watchful guard. ‘That must be his son, Edwin. Haven’t seen him since he was barely a babe, just before the duchess died.’ He finally spoke. ‘The duke had him rather late in life. He has to be mostly of age by now.’ He said considering. ‘Perhaps he is in search of a suitable wife.’

Athos glanced at the older musketeer, noting the shadow of a grin as he leaned his head into Athos’s speaking like an old gossip in Athos’s ear. Athos would have shuddered but something told him he needed all the information he could get. ‘Heard recently there was a spot of bother in Toulouse. That the son got himself into trouble with a servant girl and left daddy to clear up the mess, if you know what I mean?’ Athos internalised the eye roll with difficulty. ‘Heard he got sent to a monastery to be “straightened out”. Still,’ Gilbert continued, straightening slightly, still grinning. ‘Apple don’t fall far from the tree with that one. His father’

Whatever the father had done was lost over a shout of anger, and the musketeers were forced yet again into the role of glorified bouncers, keeping the nobles from killing each other. By the time Athos returned, Gilbert had gone, any interest in the conversation lost.

They were able to leave not long afterward, helped by Athos growing impatient that cleared the hall in a single efficient sweep, his glare prompting any of the nobles left to decide that yes, it was time to go to bed after all.

‘What did Gilbert say?’ Aramis asked as they walked the quiet streets.

‘He’s the Duke of Toulouse, with his son Edwin. They haven’t been at court for a while, but he thinks Edwin must be in need of a wife.’

‘That’s it?’ Aramis asked.

‘We were interrupted.’ Athos said dryly.

‘Still, you were talking for at least 5 minutes.’

‘Gilbert gossips like an old woman.’ Athos grumbled.

‘That he does.’ Porthos agreed with a chuckle.

‘You think d’Artagnan knows the Duke?’ Aramis asked as they neared the garrison.

‘Yes.’ Athos answered without hesitation. Then he sighed, unable to assimilate that certainty into any type of knowledge he held about the young man. ‘It’s how that worries me.’

~~

D’Artagnan paced his room, trying to bleed out the swirling emotions that raged violently through him. Whilst he hadn’t wanted to go, he’d been grateful to leave behind the noise and chaos of the ballroom. Now, though, confined to his room at the garrison, the silence felt constricting, the walls felt like they were closing in around him. He considered going to an inn, and though the distraction of alcohol would have been welcome, he felt too antsy to be in a room full of people.

He walked some more, trying desperately to blank his mind, to force the emotions out in the movement. It wasn’t enough. The room was too small; too crowded with furniture. He didn’t have the space to move, to let off steam, to stop the scream that felt like it had been clogging the back of his throat all evening escaping.

He had to get out. He had to escape the confines of his room. He wondered how many musketeers and recruits would be still in the garrison if he left, how many were there to tell Athos, Aramis and Porthos that he had walked out of the garrison. He wasn’t ready to answer the questions he had seen so clearly on Athos’s face. Wasn’t ready to reveal a reality that he had tried so long and so hard to forget.

Wasn’t ready to consider the implications of seeing that man after so long.

His look went to the window.

It wasn’t the first time he had used it to escape his room, and he doubted it would be the last. He made short work of the latch, the small pane opening into the room. His room was along the eastern wall, looking out onto Rue De Ville, on the third, and top, floor, giving him a view of the sharp fall to the road below. He didn’t hesitate now he’d made the decision, using the window as a bench, facing the wall, digging fingers into uneven brickwork above to push himself slowly to his feet, balancing on the frame before climbing up onto the roof. From the roof it was fairly easy to traverse to the edge of the corner of Rue De Ville and the corner of Rue De Lille, where a town house backed onto the Garrison, the gap barely 4 feet. From the townhouse his options opened up, the whole of the city of Paris beckoning him in the dark and quiet, the perfect escape.

~~

Walking the city was not a new exercise. When he’d first arrived in Paris d’Artagnan had had many trips through and around the city. Fuelled with grief and anger, at a loss of what to do, caught between one life and another, he’d walked around every inch of the city seeking answers.

He had been homesick for Gascony, for the space of open fields and fewer people, where he could run to his heart content, where he knew everyone, where he had space to escape. But thinking of Gascony had led to thoughts of his dad, the grief that felt like it was crushing him at times. He couldn’t comprehend returning to Lupiac, to his home without his dad by his side.

But the city had often seemed too loud, too crowded, too walled in. He’d walked the length and breadth of the city, wandering any path from wide open avenues to the smallest of alleyways. He’d found a peace in the movement, had eventually found solace in the chaos of city life. Surrounded by noise and energy and people he’d been able to bury some of the grief of his father’s untimely murder away behind it.

He’d learnt the lay out of the city almost by accident, sometimes walking off pain and anguish, other times running off anger that burnt red, that made him shake with pent up energy. And as much as he wished for home, he knew returning would not be the same. That the bitterness of memories in the small village would be too strong. Paris was big and anonymous. She held him in her grasp now, swallowed him up. Perhaps more importantly she held no memories of his dad to remind him at every corner.

When he was allowed to stay as a recruit at the musketeers, as the three men he now called brothers somehow saw fit to welcome him into their group, as they shared their knowledge and wisdom of things far beyond just shooting or hand to hand or sword fighting, d’Artagnan had found another release for his energy, had found a more useful way to funnel his emotions. But he occasionally walked the streets still. During nights he simply couldn’t sleep, feeling enclosed in the four walls of his room, surrounded by memories that he couldn’t seem to escape. But the trips certainly became less frequent, less needed as he fell into the rhythm of the Musketeer life.

His traitorous conscious started prodding him as he turned down seemingly random streets. It took a little longer for d’Artagnan to admit to himself that above all he was angry and looking for a fight. That the random streets were actually a way to search out the seedier parts of Paris, the parts no sane man would travel any time, let alone in the dead of night.

It was never quiet in Paris. Even now there was cries and laughter, the odd scream, metal scraping against metal, wind making sheets covering windows flutter in its grasp, a dog barking, a glass shattering somewhere to his right. D’Artagnan let the music of the city wash over him, ground him, drown out the thoughts of his head till he had some control of the anger that filled him, allowing other thoughts to surface. It took a long time for the sensible part of d’Artagnan’s conscious, that appeared to have taken on a voice that sounded a lot like Athos, to prod him into turning back towards the garrison, entering his room once more through the window.

He knew why he wanted to fight, even if he could barely admit it to himself. Seeing _him_ again after so many years, suddenly having to _remember_ so forcefully had sent him looking for a way to prove he wasn’t a boy anymore, that he wasn’t helpless any longer. That he could fight, and win, and maybe the pain and the adrenaline would bleed out some of the fear that seemed to have taken up residence in d’Artagnan’s soul again.

He managed a few hours’ sleep, thankful for the dreamless sleep of exhaustion that allowed him to feel at least somewhat rested when the sun rose. Sleep and daylight made controlling the feelings easier, allowed him to shut out the memories far better than the streets of Paris in darkness had.

As he dressed, pulling on the familiar weight of his fully loaded weapons belt, he took strength from reminding himself over and over that he was a musketeer. He was strong and able. He was the King’s champion. He’d taken out Lebarge. He would never be helpless again.

He did, however, go marching to the courtyard looking for a fight. He still sought the physical need, the physical reminder that he could fight. Not from some nameless nobody in the street as he had searched unconsciously for last night. He needed the reminder of crossing swords with a fellow musketeer. He needed to know, whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not, that he was good enough to wear the pauldron that sat snug on his shoulder.

He hoped Athos would be there but was surprised to find the courtyard mostly empty, only a few of the recruits, eager enough to be seen early in the garrison, hoping to be noticed. D’Artagnan realised it was earlier than he had thought.

D’Artagnan briefly looked them over. He’d fought with all of them at one time or another. He was known for skill with the sword, and patience to teach so was sought to help train. He was also young enough to have the energy to fight when the day was done and everyone else was looking for more restful pursuits. One, Jean, d’Artagnan had trained with more than the others. He was ok with the sword, a little slow and obvious at times, and whilst it wasn’t the fight d’Artagnan was seeking, perhaps the familiar movement of sword play would be enough for now. He still felt antsy, ready to climb out of his own skin if he didn’t just move.

Jean was certainly up for it, standing smartly, sword ready when asked. D’Artagnan could have ended the fight with the first clumsy parry. He let the move go, though, counting through the familiar steps, the thrusts and parries that Athos had painstakingly taught him, day after day until he could do them in his sleep. Jean was obviously nervous but soon settled into the same rhythm as d’Artagnan, recognising this wasn’t so much a fight, but an exercise to learn from. He copied the moves as best he could, occasionally slipping as he forced his feet through the unnatural patterns.

It wasn’t enough, movement wasn’t enough, frustration building as his opponent failed to keep up for his own need. D’Artagnan was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate solely on the movement, his treacherous mind trying to force itself backward in time to memories d’Artagnan had long since thought buried. So desperate was he in the attempt to forget it took him a second longer than it should to realise Athos had suddenly appeared at Jean’s shoulder, tapping him aside gently and settling across from d’Artagnan. He didn’t say anything, and d’Artagnan bit his lip in unconscious worry at what he was thinking, at what he’d read on d’Artagnan’s face.

Athos, as usual, was impossible to read, simply met d’Artagnan’s eye, bowed his head slightly and lifted his sword in acknowledgement. D’Artagnan lifted his own sword in salute, even as his heart beat finally picked up, as adrenaline coursed through him and brought blood flowing fast into battle ready muscles. This was the fight he had been after, and all the memories finally slipped away as he faced his mentor.

They had fought countless times before. Athos still got the better of him most of the time- he was the undisputed master swordsman of the musketeers after all. But d’Artagnan had managed to win a few times. A couple through luck, recently more from skill, each time a pride filled “well done” from Athos, the nod of approval more than enough for d’Artagnan.

They circled each other. In most of their fights it was d’Artagnan who bored first, too impatient for the start of the fight and going in for the first strike, Athos waiting out the inevitable. Now, though, d’Artagnan was counting again, determined to force Athos into the first strike, reaching 99 before Athos sword lashed out, quick and deadly had d’Artagnan not been moving almost as fast to parry. The resultant clang of metal on metal echoing around the silent, empty courtyard. At least, D’Artagnan had assumed the place was still empty, not stopping to look as he focused entirely on Athos, unaware that the courtyard was filling up, fellow musketeers or recruits stopping to watch what was quickly becoming a popular spectator sport in the regiment as the sheer ferocity of the fight between d’Artagnan and Athos broke out.

It was a beautiful spectre to behold. They were both graceful in their own way. Athos with clinical moves and efficient strikes, every thrust and movement parried with deadly intention. D’Artagnan moved with the ease and grace of a dancer, flexible and quick he could move almost as if he read the intention straight from Athos’s mind. Aramis and Porthos, amongst the spectators having arrived with Athos could see the honing of natural talent that Athos had slowly instilled in his protégé, taking the energy and temper and stubbornness and grace that was all d’Artagnan and moulding it into a deadly package that put him on a par with anyone in the garrison.

Round the courtyard the fight went, quick and brutal at times, slow and intense at others. D’Artagnan let the movements flow, not having to consciously think through every movement his body knew so well. He let Athos have the attack, before growing bored and forcing the man into a surprised defensive shot. He let his mind wander briefly over tactics but he didn’t want the fight to end, he wanted his body to keep going, to keep pushing, past the burning pain in his legs, past burning lungs that were desperately trying to keep up with the oxygen demanded of them. If he was moving, and fighting and his sword was clashing again and again with Athos then he wasn’t thinking, the memories were absent, his mind blissfully clear. He could force away the feelings of hate and helplessness that had plagued him since seeing that man. He could remember that he was a musketeer and he had no need to feel anything but the fight.

But his mind wandered.

As he fought to stop thinking about that man his mind once more wandered to days long past, to red leaves and a pyre. To a haunting cry and burning pain. Memories surfaced of the impotent rage that had filled him as he hung, just a child and completely powerless to do anything but watch, screaming as the fire licked at his mother. Completely helpless. Completely defenceless.

Eyes that long haunted his dream flashed through his mind, caused something to snap and black fury to tidal wave through him. Adrenaline blanked out pain, fury riding roughshod over exhaustion. His moves became hard and fast, clinical as he channelled the fury into movements that moments ago he had drawn such comfort from.

D’Artagnan didn’t remember the last stage of the fight. He didn’t even realise he’d gained the upper hand until he was staring down at Athos on the floor, diverting his sword at the last moment to stop an inch from Athos’s unguarded throat. For a second another image swam over Athos’s face, another face, from another time, another life, but then the shocked silence of the garrison chased it away, and d’Artagnan obliquely registered the quickly hidden shock on his mentor’s face. The entire garrison appeared to hold its breath, just waiting, till d’Artagnan forced himself to take a step back, sword swinging limply to his side, and Athos smiled proudly, the quiet “well done” like a signal for the noise to start again.

A clap to his shoulder made him startle, made his heart stutter, Aramis adding his own observations about him besting Athos so thoroughly. Porthos’s hearty hand to his back almost made him fall forwards. He felt shocked, panting as his pained lungs forced air in as quickly as they could. Athos took his proffered arm, levering to his feet, just as out of breath. He held on to d’Artagnan’s arm for longer than necessary, his probing eyes seeking information d’Artagnan desperately wanted to hide, before he simply nodded again, resettling the hold rather than letting go of his arm. ‘Breakfast.’ He announced, not giving d’Artagnan a choice as he forced him away and towards the kitchen. Aramis and Porthos shared a glance before walking after them.

‘The day will be long.’ Athos commented when they were all settled at the table with food and drink. He met d’Artagnan’s eye with a mild, questioning look, assessing his ability to stay in the moment, to not have a repeat of last night. D’Artagnan felt his look grow slightly mutinous although he struggled not to show it. He simply nodded, and looked away.

‘Aye, watching the king try to hit any animal from ten paces and sulking when he misses.’ Porthos commented, effectively lightening the mood though neither he nor Aramis missed the by play.

‘Always the height of entertainment.’ Aramis agreed.

None of them asked the obvious question and d’Artagnan was grateful for that. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that they wouldn’t, as much as he might wish it. But there was not time that morning. Their fellow musketeers who were to accompany the king were already milling about readying their mounts for the day. D’Artagnan knew that Athos wasn’t about to let it lie though.

Athos was frustrated at the lack of time and opportunity to question d’Artagnan, though it didn’t show on his face. Whatever was distracting d’Artagnan, whoever the man was that had caused such tumultuous emotions in the Gascon, Athos would find out, but he knew he needed more time than was available to do that.

He just hoped there would be time.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so unsettled about the whole thing. Perhaps it was simply because he had never seen d’Artagnan as he had yesterday. Had never been witness, as he had that morning, to the blank look of detachment on d’Artagnan’s face as his sword descended swiftly towards his neck. For a moment Athos had feared for his life, unable to defend the blow, d’Artagnan clearly not aware of whose neck his sword was moving towards.

He had to know what was happening because he feared the consequences if they didn’t. Athos glanced at Aramis, then Porthos, no words needed to express a desire that their young Gascon not be left alone today. They both simply nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments- as anyone will say who posts to this site, they are always cherished.  
> Oh, and I know nothing of sword play. Please forgive any inaccuracies!


	4. chapter three

_He had to know what was happening because he feared the consequences if they didn’t. Athos glanced at Aramis, then Porthos, no words needed to express a desire that their young Gascon not be left alone today. They both simply nodded._

**Chapter three**

 

Athos’s desire to watch out for the man however were stalled at the first hurdle. D’Artagnan was invited to ride at the king’s side, an order that was both a privilege and an impossibility to turn down. Athos rode at the back of the pack of noblemen next to Duval, an older musketeer who had remarked bitterly that the sheer noise of conversation would ensure that no animal would be getting close that day. Athos had agreed wholeheartedly, not that it was their place to advise on hunting. As the King appeared unbothered from what Athos could see of him, chatting away to d’Artagnan and his usual consort of trust advisors, they resigned themselves to a boring day on horseback. Further up, Athos could see Aramis and Porthos riding at the front of the entourage; he didn’t need to see their faces to know they were bored already.

At least the Duke of Toulouse was not among the noblemen. His son sat astride a horse, a few rows in front of Athos, talking enthusiastically to the Comte next to him. Athos found himself studying the son, just about to see his youthful face in profile. He was a serious young man, talking intensely with the Comte at his side, the conversation looking almost entirely one sided. The Comte mainly looked bored, barely nodding in response to whatever the young man was speaking so fervently about. Not that it seemed to bother the youth at all. He was tall and rangy, sat proudly across a beast of a horse who walked along, his head held stiffly by the heavy hand of its rider. Athos wondered if the young man was simply a harsh rider or an inexperienced one. He seemed too comfortable to be that inexperienced, though. As Athos watched, he saw the young man free an ornate crucifix from his jerkin, kissing it before shaking it slightly at the Comte, who hid a poorly concealed eye roll. A religious man, then. That surprised Athos.

‘Do you think there is a fawn left in this forest?’ Duval asked as they trudged along.

‘not unless one is lame and unable to move.’ Athos replied, taking in the silent forest around them.

‘unless it happens to be lying in the road, I fear the king will be leaving without discharging his weapon.’

‘A fact that does not appear to be unduly bothering his majesty.’ Athos noted, Duval smiling as the king’s laughter caught on the wind and carried to them.

‘Your boy appears to have the king’s ear.’ Duval commented.

Athos glanced at his compatriot but couldn’t detect any malice behind the words. ‘Don’t let d’Artagnan hear you call him boy. Men have died for less.’

Duval nodded even as he grinned. ‘I saw him challenge Chastain to a wrestling match once.’ He reminisced. Chastain was a big musketeer who could give Porthos a challenge in size if not skill in hand to hand. ‘I wouldn’t have bet against him.’

‘The king commissioned him. And they are not that far apart in age.’ Athos answered his original comment. ‘I believe his Majesty finds d’Artagnan…interesting.’ His tone had unintentionally sobered as he spoke; he knew it wasn’t always good to be of too much interest to those in power.

Duval nodded, his face already sobering. ‘I think I am glad that I am not in any way interesting to our King.’ He commented. Athos nodded, but before he could say anything, a gun was suddenly discharged.

In the initial chaos it took Athos a moment to work out that the shot had come from the middle of their group and not from outside. The horses had all startled badly, some, including the king’s, dancing skittishly around. Athos could see d’Artagnan reaching for the horse, calming him quickly, keeping hold, his own weapon in his other hand as he said something to the king.

‘Who dared to take a shot?’ his majesty’s voice boomed.

Athos almost groaned as the young son of the Duke of Toulouse raised his head, the pistol in his hand claiming his guilt as much as his hand, not that the boy even looked purburbed.

‘Boy, you do not shoot before the King.’

‘But there was a pheasant.’

‘Then you should have spoken up!’

‘This is a hunt, is it not?’ The challenging comment drew a low gasp from the watching noblemen.

His Majesty was clearly working himself up into a rage, and Athos shared a knowing look with Duval, knowing how this could spiral. He began to move past the nobles who were settling into watch the show, glad that it wasn’t them on the end of the king’s wrath. D’Artagnan, though, already close to the king by virtue of keeping a steadying hand on his mount, leant his head closer to the king, speaking softly to his Majesty. Athos had no idea what was said, could only see d’Artagnan gesture slightly towards the boy with a knowing look to his majesty, who did as request and looked properly at the boy, sharing a smirk with the musketeer when he looked back with a nod of his head.

‘You are right, of course. He is just a boy.’ The king’s voice carried better than d’Artagnan’s, reaching them as Athos managed to draw level with Edwin. ‘Don’t shoot again.’ The King commanded, ‘not even if your life depends on it.’ He turned, dismissing him with a cold shoulder.

Duly cowed, Edwin’s head bowed, the king thanking d’Artagnan as he bid the hunt continue, d’Artagnan letting go of the horse and moving to continue at the king’s side. Athos looked around, to check the youth was ok after almost inciting a proper tongue lashing from the king, but the look of loathing on Edwin’s face caught the words. The youth was glaring in the direction of the king…no, Athos corrected himself, at d’Artagnan’s back with such anger Athos was momentarily taken aback. ‘I’ll have your shot.’ Athos spoke quietly, the youth swinging towards him and about to argue till he looked properly at Athos’s face and closed his mouth. He handed over the spent gun without a word. ‘You’ve never been hunting with his majesty.’ Athos didn’t pose it as a question and didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The king is hunting.’ He carried on. ‘the rest of you are here to watch.’

‘There will be no animals to shoot with the noise the king is making.’ The boy said sullenly.

‘That is not your place to say.’ Athos said, a sharp note to his voice. ‘The king is not known for his patience; you would be best to stay invisible till we return to the palace.’

‘Would have been fine if the musketeer hadn’t laughed at me.’ The boy spat.

‘D’Artagnan saved you from the tongue of the king. Believe me, he was doing you a kindness.’ Athos said. Edwin looked up to argue, but Athos glared at him, and the boy quelled, looking back at his horse, his shoulders set and tense, his hand automatically reaching for the crucifix at his neck. Athos left him the boy to sulk, but not before he caught the relieved look on the face of the Comte, who nodded gratefully at Athos that the boy was finally quiet.

‘Who is that boy, anyway?’ Duval asked as they turned into the long driveway some time later, returning to the palace, the single shot remaining the only one fired the entire hunt.

‘The son of the Duke of Toulouse. Edwin, I believe is his name.’

‘Duke of Toulouse.’ Duval looked thoughtful. ‘Thought I spied him yesterday among the crowds. Haven’t seen him in years.’

‘Gilbert said the same thing.’ Athos said carefully.

Duval appeared to be trying to remember something. ‘There was something…some scandal. Can’t remember the details. Got to be almost 2 decades, under the old king even. I was only an infantry man in the regular army, I didn’t care so much for court gossip.’

‘You care now?’ Athos asked dryly.

Duval grinned. ‘Only thing that keeps days like this even half interesting.’

**

The arrival back at the palace was busy as the musketeers and assorted Red Guard sorted out horses and noble men. Athos lost sight of d’Artagnan, who the king had beckoned to stay with him, though he was happy to see that Aramis and Porthos also moved to escort the royal party back to his quarters where Treville and the Queen would be waiting to hear of the hunt.

There was a smaller dinner that night for only a select few noblemen, before the big main event the following night. The posturing and posing to gain invitation for that night’s event had been going on for months, and had grown tiresome very quickly. The king, of course, had enjoyed the extra attention everyone was suddenly doting on him for the chance to be seen as one of the invited.

Treville came to the steps as the last of the horses was led away by the stable hands and the noblemen left to either ready themselves for the night or to find their own entertainment. ‘The Red Guard have said they do not require any additional security help tonight.’ Treville announced to the milling musketeers. One or two of the musketeers snorted quietly in amusement at the announcement. ‘I offered our help, but it was turned down and as the First Minister and his Majesty agreed, I saw no reason to argue.’

Athos wondered how much Treville had argued. A night off in the middle of the King’s birthday weekend was an unexpected result, one that would lend them energy for the biggest events tomorrow. The muttering ceased as Treville raised a hand. ‘You will all be required, refreshed and ready, on the morrow.’

Treville disappeared back into the palace as dismissed, the musketeers scattered to find their own entertainment, far away from the palace if possible. Athos had just one thing he wished to accomplish that night, the unexpected time off finally allowing him time to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with d’Artagnan. Athos looked up as Aramis and Porthos, who had been behind Treville in the doorway, walked over to him.

‘D’Artagnan?’

‘Treville asked him to remain till he finished attending the king.’ Aramis told him.

Athos raised an eyebrow in silent question. ‘Didn’t seem bothered.’ Aramis answered with a shrug. ‘Told him to meet us at the Grey if we weren’t here.’ Aramis added before changing the subject. ‘That was the Duke’s son, let off a shot.’

Athos nodded. ‘He is young and inexperienced at court.’

‘D’Artagnan did not appear to recognise ‘im.’ Porthos commented.

Athos shot him a look, working through the implications. ‘So if d’Artagnan is familiar with the duke it did not involve the son… or was before the son was born?’

Porthos shrugged an either or gesture. ‘you gonna ask ‘im?’

‘Yes.’ Athos asked.

‘You want us to stay around or disappear?’ Aramis answered.

Athos had managed to think of advantages for both having and not having them there. Of course, the four of them together were close and whatever was affecting one affected them all. However, Athos also knew that by forcing d’Artagnan to talk if he didn’t want to would likely involve a confrontation, and he wasn’t sure more people would help or hinder the situation. ‘Perhaps remain in the vicinity.’ He suggested.

The garrison was predictably quiet when they got there. They stripped their horses of saddles and reins, helping out the stable boys, busy with other musketeer mounts, by wiping them down and leaving them with water and hay aplenty. The stable boys nodded gratefully for the help.

They ate a meal in friendly company, played a few hands of cards, (Athos and Aramis refusing to make any money dealings with Porthos) and as the sun disappeared, and the lengthening shadows claimed the light in the garrison, and Treville and d’Artagnan had still yet to appear, they thought to relocate to the local inn.

Treville was entering the garrison as they walked towards the exit. He was alone, much to their surprise. ‘Ok sir?’

‘Yes Athos, the Red Guard appear to be coping with the twenty guests at dinner.’ Athos knew that Treville would have reassured himself of that before leaving the palace despite his dry tone. He almost smiled.

‘D’Artagnan seemed to think that you would be at an Inn already. I told him he could go meet you there.’

Athos didn’t let his face echo the disbelief that d’Artagnan had gone anywhere near an inn. ‘We were just on our way.’ He told the captain, nodding a goodbye.

‘Remember it’s an early morning tomorrow.’ Treville called after them as they disappeared.

Athos was not surprised that d’Artagnan was nowhere to be seen in the Inn Aramis had told them to meet in. He strongly doubted he’d ever been there. ‘Stay here, in case he got lost on the way.’ Athos told his companions. ‘I’ll have a quick look around for him.’

The others nodded, blending over to join in the various pursuits on offer in the inn. Athos made a quick round, returning to the garrison to check d’Artagnan’s room (just in case, though he didn’t think d’Artagnan would be that obvious). He checked Aramis and Porthos’s rooms just in case, before leaving and going to the Bonacieux’s house, though that stood silent and still. He knew there were many places d’Artagnan could go from there, and if he seriously didn’t want to be found, Athos would have no hope in a city as big and as crowded as Paris. Athos felt disquieted that d’Artagnan was hiding away from them. Annoyed that d’Artagnan wasn’t coming to them with whatever was happening. And a sense of foreboding he couldn’t put a finger on but left him feeling unusually anxious. He found himself heading back to his own rooms on his way back from the Bonacieux’s, needing to pause and collect himself before going back to the Inn. He stopped only long enough to freshen up, beating down the annoyance that d’Artagnan wasn’t coming to them. Anger would not help.

He was startled by a knock on the door. Frowning, he got up to answer, surprised to find the object of his thoughts stood on his doorstep. The young man was framed in the doorway, and at first his gaze was on the floor, studying the stone work before he finally sighed, and looked properly at Athos. ‘I…I need to tell you something.’

Athos didn’t say anything, studying d’Artagnan in the poor light as he stepped away and gestured for him to enter. He was anxious, that much was obvious, as he stood tense and almost vibrating in the centre of the small room, studying it all without, Athos bet, taking in any of it. Athos moved around, lighting a few more candles to brighten the dimly lit room, before moving to the hearth, taking his time to light the fire to lend some heat to the chilled room, allowing d’Artagnan time to settle.

‘Where are Aramis and Porthos?’ D’Artagnan finally spoke.

‘At the inn.’

D’Artagnan glanced around again, his face pale, his body near thrumming with pent up energy. ‘Can you…find them?’

Athos stood up, moving slowly towards him, reluctant at that moment to leave d’Artagnan, even to fetch them. D’Artagnan looked up, finally looking Athos properly in the eye. ‘I don’t want to have to repeat the story.’ He said simply.

Athos moved even closer, reaching up to rest a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. D’Artagnan looked like he wanted to shake off the contact, but held himself still. ‘What happened?’ The d’Artagnan he had seen at the side of the king earlier had been looking almost relaxed compared to the morning. Now d’Artagnan was tense, apprehensive…fearful even, of something, or someone. He seemed to vibrate with tension under Athos’s hand.

‘Please, Athos.’ D’Artagnan said simply.

‘You will be here when I return?’ Athos asked. Ordered.

‘Yes.’ D’Artagnan answered immediately. ‘I promise.’

Athos nodded. D’Artagnan, he knew, was a man of his word. ‘I won’t be long.’ He said, giving d’Artagnan’s shoulder a quick squeeze in comfort and solidarity before he left, walking as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.

xx

When Athos stepped back into the room with Aramis and Porthos in tow, he could see that d’Artagnan had not been idle in his absence. D’Artagnan had tidied up, not that the room had been especially messy (you had to spend time in a place to leave a mark), but the books on the stand were straight, chairs straightened, candles rearranged, and his wine bottles now all faced the same way, in a regimental line. One bottle had been culled from the line, stood open and breathing in readiness on the table, cups already to be claimed. Athos glanced at this, then looked back at d’Artagnan a single eyebrow raised in a pointed look.

D’Artagnan simply shrugged, taking a mouthful of the wine in his hand, his small but unrepentant smile soothing something in Athos.

Athos settled at the table, not about to ignore a bottle of wine, pouring cups for Porthos and Aramis before serving himself. He turned to offer d’Artagnan a top up but the Gascon shook his head, taking another small and hurried sip. He hadn’t stopped pacing slowly round the room since they had entered.

‘You know who the duke is.’ Athos stated.

D’Artagnan nodded, stopping by the small bookcase and flicking open the cover of the top book.

‘The Duke of Toulouse.’ Athos prompted. He saw Aramis shoot him a look at the pressing questions; they all knew the youngest of them did not react well to being pushed. Athos, though, felt a pressing need to know, and even though they had been gifted an evening, it didn’t feel like a lot of time to do anything. He felt antsy, unprepared for an attack that was coming, but he didn’t know from whom or for what.

Athos did pause, watched d’Artagnan flick rapidly through the book before closing it sharply, leaving the books to move listlessly towards the single window, looking out on the quiet courtyard below. Athos opened his mouth again but Aramis shook his head, stopping the question in its track.

‘The duke didn’t have an heir.’ Athos almost startled when, after a long period of silence, d’Artagnan finally talked. Framed by the window, lit from behind by a guttering candle on the sill, they could only see him in silhouette. It was still obvious the shudder that worked its way through the thin frame. ‘He had been married many years but his wife had never born him a child, an heir.’

A deep breath, a slow release, and d’Artagnan turned, staying where he was in the window, but finally looking at them, allowing them to see his face.

‘The couple agreed that a younger woman may have more luck, and provide an heir for the estate, less it fall to someone not carrying their name. The Duke’s eye was caught by a young maid in the house, and he took her as his mistress. She was Portuguese. She came to Toulouse when she was young, seeking employment.’ There was a slightly wistful tone as he spoke, his look faraway as he told the story. ‘She found it on the Duke’s estate. She started as a chambermaid, worked up to a maid attending the Duchess. She was more successful than the Duchess, and bore her master a son, she agreed would become his heir. The Duke acknowledged him as such, and he grew up with his mother on a small holding in the grounds of his estate.’

Athos wanted to ask questions, demand answers, get to the crux of the matter, but he didn’t need Aramis to tell him that d’Artagnan had to tell them this in his own way. That he had to be patient. D’Artagnan would occasionally look up from an intimate study of the floor, as if to check that they were still there. Athos took to shifting occasionally in his seat to subtly fill the silent pauses, Porthos quickly catching on, his leathers creaking as he would settle and resettle in the chair. Aramis’s full attention was on d’Artagnan.

A breath hitched as d’Artagnan took a breath, a sip of wine galvanising the words again. ‘Everything was well, everyone was happy with the situation. The son was healthy and was growing. His mother no longer had to work long hours as a maid. And the Duke had his heir.’ A smile twisted his lips for a moment, a wistful smile that turned uglier the longer it stayed, soured. Silence permeated the room, tension almost a living, breathing thing growing in stature at the story unfolding.

‘But then the Duchess, late in life, became with child.’ D’Artagnan said quietly, his words now carefully empty of emotion. Athos longed to stand, to approach him, to stand with him and place a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t dare move. ‘Better, she bore him a healthy son.’

‘How old was the older child?’ Aramis asked into the silence when d’Artagnan didn’t immediately carry on.

D’Artagnan’s head came up, and he studied Aramis for a moment. ‘He had just turned 5 when his half brother was born. He was out in the courtyard when the news of the child’s birth was announced by the Duke himself.’ For a moment there was a shadow of a hopeful smile on d’Artagnan’s face. ‘He was happy with the idea of having a brother but his mother wasn’t. He didn’t understand why his mother cried at the news. He didn’t understand when instead of congratulating the Duke, she began pleading with him, pleading for her son.’ Another, shallower breath that hitched, catching in the throat. ‘Pleading to be sent away, allowed back to Portugal. The child didn’t understand, he didn’t want to go Portugal, he wanted to stay at home. But his mother was down on her knees in front of the Duke swearing that she wouldn’t say anything.’ Athos felt a cold chill work up his spine, making goosebumps break out and the hair at the base of his neck stand up on end.

‘The duke refused. He didn’t _need_ the boy anymore. He had a legitimate son, and had no need for another. He was…unnecessary.’ D’Artagnan’s words, spoke with a matter of fact-ness that grated uncomfortably, made Athos want to shudder. As much as they could have pieced together the parts of the story, Athos wanted to deny it, even as d’Artagnan’s words refused him. The thought that d’Artagnan had been banished with his mother, to live in poverty because he was no longer necessary made him uncomfortable, but something told him that wasn’t the worst of it, d’Artagnan’s quiet words continuing the story shattering the hope that banishment was the worse that a small boy had endured.

‘The child was unnecessary, and couldn’t be allowed to survive, to claim his inheritance. The duke accused the mother of being a witch, of casting a spell on the duke to make him love her, and so that she could birth the bastard son. He incited the local Catholic priest to have her tried and when they found her guilty, they built the pyre in front of the house the duke had given her. The son was to die at her side, as guilty of the sin as his mother.’

Aramis’s voice when he spoke was rough with checked emotion, the horror clear on his face. ‘What was the child’s name?’

‘…Henri.’ D’Artagnan finally answered. ‘He was named Henri by his father. He was to die with his mother aged five, no longer necessary. He was strung up to the stake, over watched by the monster himself, as they set light to the pyre.’

Another hitched breath, a shudder through the body, but d’Artagnan’s voice continued, low and gravelly and haunting in the silent room. ‘He saw his mother die. Give into the smoke and flames when she couldn’t fight anymore. The boy was beginning to burn when one of the gardeners knocked out the Duke’s guard who was standing watch, and cut the boy from the pyre. He beat out the flames, carried the boy to the stables and stole one of the duke’s horses to escape on.’ Another pause, another collecting breath. ‘The gardener had been in love with the woman for years, had been near enough living with her and her son for the past few years. He lost the woman he loved, but rescued the son. The bastard son.’ The voice became bitter and twisted on the last sentence.

Silence filled the room, d’Artagnan taking an age to gain the courage to look up at them. His look focused on Athos, a pleading quality to it. Athos, though, for once didn’t acknowledge the look, desperately trying to fit the story in to all they knew of d’Artagnan.

‘What did the mother call her son?’ Aramis asked quietly, needing d’Artagnan to acknowledge his part in the story out loud.

‘Henri.’ D’Artagnan answered immediately. ‘When the Duke was there. When not, she called him Charles.’

‘What was the gardener’s name?’ He asked, already guessing, but wanting d’Artagnan to tell the whole story.

‘Alexandre d’Artagnan’ D’Artagnan finally answered after a pause. His look paused on Aramis for a moment before once again seeking Athos.

Alexandre d’Artagnan had rescued him, rescued him from certain death at the hands of the duke, and raised him as his son. D’Artagnan had watched his mother burn at the stake, convicted of witchcraft. D’Artagnan was the son of a duke, and had watched his father kill his mother because they had become an inconvenience. It was breath taking in its sadistic nature. And Athos was struggling to fit it all together and also to consider all it meant in the here and now. He studied d’Artagnan, thought about the man who had stood fearfully on his doorstep. ‘The Duke knows who you are.’ He finally stated as much as asked.

D’Artagnan simply nodded.

‘When did you see him?’

‘At the palace. I was waiting in the stable as Treville checked over the security for the dinner tonight. He found me. Said I had my mother’s looks.’

‘He threaten you?’ Porthos all but growled.

It seemed to take a lot for d’Artagnan to tear his anxious gaze from Athos to acknowledge Porthos’s question though he didn’t answer directly. ‘He fears what I remember. What I will do about it. Asked if I’d tell the king.’

‘The Duke is powerful.’ Aramis said thoughtfully. D’Artagnan was studying Athos again, though, didn’t hear the words. Athos wasn’t looking at him, didn’t see the scrutiny he was being held in, the near panic that was becoming visible in d’Artagnan’s eyes as his mentor didn’t react to the story. To his story.

‘He won’t try anything.’ Porthos disagreed with Aramis. ‘Not at the palace surrounded by guards. ‘sides, ‘e’s’ he waved a hand in d’Artagnan’s general direction ‘a musketeer now. Not a boy. Not so easy to kill.’

‘He won’t want the story to get out, though. For his Majesty to find out.’

‘Wonder if the son knows?’ As Aramis and Porthos conversed, wondering on the permutations of what might happen, d’Artagnan shifted, walking unsteadily towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Aramis asked when he noticed, making Athos and Porthos look up too.

‘Back to the garrison. Early morning tomorrow.’ D’Artagnan almost sounded casual, though the way he avoided Athos’s sharp look spoke volumes. His mentor’s non response was becoming painfully obvious.

‘We need to’ Aramis was interrupted by d’Artagnan reaching the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He said quickly as he practically run through the door. At Aramis’s look Porthos got up and followed.

xxx

When Athos turned to him, Aramis saw exactly why d’Artagnan had felt the need to escape. Athos looked angry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading- reviews always welcome (read, cherished etc etc!)


	5. chapter four

**Chapter four**

_When Athos turned to him, Aramis saw exactly why d’Artagnan had felt the need to escape. Athos looked angry._

As Aramis watched, Athos drained the cup of wine that had been all but forgotten in his grasp. He refilled it, the movements sharp, the wine almost slopping over the rim in his haste. He seemed to consider the wine for a moment, but seemed suddenly at a loss, the chair scraping painfully on the floor as he pushed it back, getting to his feet to pace.

The cup of wine arched backward and forwards with Athos’s pacing. Aramis watched the cup in fascination from where he stayed slumped, a visage of relaxation at the table, waiting for the contents to be dispatched by the almost violent movements, knowing that such a waste would not help Athos’s current mood. Then again, Athos was a master drinker, and was unlikely to waste a drop, whatever his emotion.

'I don't understand; how could he not say anything?' Athos finally said, his voice almost reasonable given the pacing.

Aramis continued to sit quietly, but tore his gaze from the cup to Athos’s face. 'What would you have had him say? When?' He asked, genuinely curious to know the answer. It was rare to see Athos so fired up, to be visibly agitated by a revelation. Then again, none of them had even the slightest warning of all that would be revealed, had not had a chance to prepare. And it was d’Artagnan: Athos’s own protégée, a boy they had known a year, had spent a year training and developing. Trusting. Trusting with secrets like wives that should have been dead.

Athos turned on him, eyes blazing, arm lifted mid gesture (though not the one with the cup Aramis idly noted) when the question appeared to catch up with him properly and he paused, mouth closing abruptly, by all appearances giving the question the attention it deserved.

Aramis wondered at his thoughts. Athos should have been the one to understand why sometimes it was necessary to keep secrets. He after all had kept the secret of his marriage, and perhaps more importantly its abrupt ending for years. Was he holding d’Artagnan up to a different standard, hypocritically denying that there could be reasons, many reasons for keeping secrets?

Athos had reasons were perhaps more obvious, not wanting to reveal such a humiliating experience, not wishing to discuss the horror of the murder of his brother at his wife’s hands. That he hadn’t even been able to stand and watch like a man the execution still caused a flush of shame on his face if you knew the man well enough to see it. He and Porthos, and he knew d’Artagnan had spent many words and actions showing Athos that the shame was unwarranted.

Aramis wondered if shame had been a motivation for d’Artagnan too, though Aramis couldn’t think why. D’Artagnan had been instrumental in Athos revealing his secrets, in both obvious and less obvious ways. He hadn’t let Athos hide away when the shame had driven him into his long abandoned home. D’Artagnan had rescued him from the flames, kept him safe, had not let the revelations change how he saw Athos. Did he expect his own secrets to cause a different reaction?

Aramis wondered if some of anger boiled down to the fact that the trust Athos had shown in d’Artagnan had not been reciprocated. That they had found out only because it had become necessary. Aramis spoke into the darkening room when Athos stayed silent, knowing that his words were likely to provoke the anger, but knowing that lancing a wound was more necessary than stitching sometimes.

'He was the bastard son of a Duke who tried to burn him on a stake.’ Athos opened his mouth, but Aramis spoke over him. ‘He watched his mother burn at the stake, murdered simply because they became an inconvenience.’ An edge Aramis couldn’t quite control took hold of his words, driving the cruel details home like nails under a hammer head. ‘That they were no longer required.' Athos tried to hide the flinch but Aramis was watching closely now. 'Tell me Athos, what would you have had him say?'

Athos finally let out a low growl of frustration and anger. 'We shouldn't have found out like this.' He said, voice cold as he turned away, desperate to get back control. He took a gulp of the wine.

‘We shouldn't have known at all!' Aramis countered, Athos spinning back at him ready to disagree, the wine contained in the cup only by virtue of there being little but dregs left. ‘Alexandre D'Artagnan risked everything to save him’ Aramis continued before he had a chance. Any semblance of calm was gone, though Aramis stayed sitting, knowing that to stand would likely cause the words to become physical. ‘They had to live everyday with the knowledge that if anyone found out, they would both likely die at the stake too. D'Artagnan grew up with that, with that danger and secrecy. And he was five, Athos!' Aramis voice rose in indignation that was not focused at Athos. 'He was five years old when his mother was killed. All he’s known, all he’s ever known is her murder. His earliest experience was knowing that his presence was no longer required. His earliest memories being told that he was an inconvenience, a source of a shame, only good enough to burn on a pyre as if being born a bastard was a crime he was guilty of and he deserved death as a punishment.’

Athos's shoulders slumped, one hand coming up to massage his temple. Aramis felt almost out of breath, the words cutting too close and he fought to keep his attention in the present. He knew now that Athos wasn't really mad about not knowing. Because Aramis felt it too. The anger was coming out at a world and an injustice that none of them could right. Of course, they were all aware of the world they inhabited, that injustice and cruelty abounded more than love and kindness. But to hear of what d’Artagnan had witnessed as a child was an outrage, that a child so young had been sentenced to death simply because he wasn’t needed anymore. And to hear it out of the blue, unprepared, from a man you considered a brother…

It hurt.

As he watched Athos struggle to come to terms with the revelations, Aramis could feel his own raging emotions. He knew, though, that whatever happened tomorrow, that they couldn’t show such conflicting emotions to d’Artagnan. They couldn’t change that they knew, but they had to be careful to not let it affect how they were around him.

D’Artagnan had revealed a huge, hidden part of himself. Yes, it had been forced to an extent, but it had also cost him to tell the story. The pain was obvious; the memories, as old as they were, still had the power to cause physical hurt. It had been there in d’Artagnan’s demeanour, his words, his desperation as he had looked at Athos, wanting to know that they wouldn’t view him as different now. That they wouldn’t let the events change who they viewed him as.

Aramis knew thought that it was better to argue, shout, rage here, in this room, than to do it in d’Artagnan’s presence. They held the power to hurt d’Artagnan badly with their reaction, but Athos wielded the potential to do the most harm. And Athos’s reaction already had hurt, had driven d’Artagnan away, however unintentional it had been. Aramis knew, though, that the depth of their relationship was far bigger than this.

‘We need a plan.’ Aramis finally said when he felt he had sufficient hold of his emotions.

Athos nodded, coming to sit down at the table, pouring fresh wine into his cup. Aramis shook his head when Athos offered the bottle to him. ‘I should go and find d’Artagnan.’ He said quietly.

When he didn’t say anything straight away, Athos looked up at Aramis. He simply shook his head. ‘D’Artagnan doesn’t need your pain on top of his.’

‘But’

‘He knows, deep down, that you weren’t angry at him.’ Aramis reassured him. ‘It wasn’t easy to hear, as much as it took everything for d’Artagnan to tell it. Porthos is with him, will make sure he gets to back to the garrison ok. Better to get the anger out here away from him, than confuse him with it.’

‘Still want to talk to him about it. About why he didn’t tell us.’

‘Yes. We all need to talk more. But not now. Tomorrow is another busy day. Another day he potentially has to come into contact with his real dad. We get through this weekend, the Duke goes home with his son, and we can start on getting things back to normal.’

‘Normal?’ Athos infused the word with doubt.

‘Normal.’ Aramis said with a shrug. ‘You really think knowing who d’Artagnan’s father really is will change anything?’

Athos took a moment longer than Aramis seemed to think necessary to think about it. ‘Only that certain things make a little more sense now.’ He said thoughtfully, remembering the previous evening, not wanting to see the look of abandonment he had known would grace the young man’s face, however fleeting. In the light of all they had learned that night it made perfect sense.

And caused a revelation that had Athos standing so suddenly he sent his chair flying.

Aramis startled at the movement. ‘Where are you going?’ He asked, confused.

‘To find d’Artagnan.’

‘Athos, it is late. We are all tired, and all have to be up early.’ Aramis reminded him, clearly not sure that anything more should be said tonight.

Athos knew, though, that it had to be tonight. The anger and hurt burned, but not at d’Artagnan, and he wouldn’t have d’Artagnan thinking for one moment that he was angry at him. Angry at the world, maybe. Certainly angry at a man who had been cruel enough to burn a woman and boy alive because it was easier than worrying about a suddenly unneeded heir. Hurt, perhaps, that d’Artagnan hadn’t told them before, though he could understand every reason why not.

This couldn’t wait till morning. He could not bear if even the whisper of a thought that Athos would think less of him lingered in d’Artagnan’s mind till morning.

xxx

D'Artagnan had started walking home, a cool wind whipping up the trash on the streets around his feet, knowing after only a few minutes that he was being tailed. He’d expected it, really. He ducked down an alleyway, waiting for Porthos to enter before simply stepping out and facing him. Porthos had grinned slightly at him, an eyebrow raised in challenge. D’Artagnan had been too exhausted to even try and make reason with him so he turned, waiting a beat for Porthos to reach him, walking shoulder to shoulder with him back to the garrison.

He eyed the bed when he entered the room. He felt exhausted but the thought of sleep left him dreading the dreams that were likely to surface. He stripped off his weapon belt but kept his jacket on, the chill of the night permeating the air. Turning to the blanket box at the end of his bed, he dug through his spare shirts to the emergency bottle of red hidden under them. He uncorked it as he walked to the bed, and in lieu of anything but the bed to sit on, simply sunk to the floor, using the bed as a leaning post instead. The wine settled to a nice burn in his empty stomach. Porthos settled next to him, accepting the bottle off him and taking his own deep swig before handing it back. The bottle went back and forth between them as they simply sat in companionable silence.

Athos disturbed the silence, only a cursory knock announcing his arrival as he walked in, the two men looking up at him in surprise, then to Aramis who followed.

‘Thought you were going home to bed?’ Aramis asked with a pointed eyebrow.

‘You sent Porthos after me. Seemed rude to send him away without a drink.’ D’Artagnan seemed weary, more than anything, even answering Aramis his words were quieter than normal, his shoulders slumped, his face pale in the single lit candle.

Porthos jostled the shoulder that was pressed against d’Artagnan’s ‘Could ‘ave found a better red.’ He commented lightly.

Athos came and sat on d’Artagnan’s other side, pressing a shoulder into the Gascon’s in an uncharacteristic physical touch of comfort. He didn’t miss the slight lean as d’Artagnan shifted against him. Aramis sighed dramatically as he took a seat against the wall opposite them, though the room was small enough that his knees practically touched d’Artagnan’s.

‘I can’t imagine the shock of seeing him again.’ Athos said with little preamble, accepting the bottle and taking a swig of the wine, passing it onto Aramis.

D’Artagnan worried a flap of skin by his thumbnail for a moment, concentrating deeply on it. ‘Haven’t seen him in 19 years.’ He finally commented. He sighed, ruthlessly tearing the flap of skin from his nail bed, watching as a faint spot of blood appeared in its place. ‘He looked…different. To how I remember him.’ He added.

‘’Spect you do to.’ Porthos pointed out quietly, watching with satisfaction the small smile that lifted d’Artagnan’s lips at the comment.

‘Haven’t even thought about him in years. Not…awake, anyway.’ He picked at the raw skin again. ‘Looks different in the dreams though.’

Athos looked up from studying d’Artagnan’s profile and caught an understanding look on Aramis’s face. He frowned in question, but Aramis simply shook his head. ‘You haven’t been sleeping well.’ He commented instead to d’Artagnan, remembering the conversation he had tried to start a few days ago. It felt like an eternity ago now.

‘I…’ a hitched breath as d’Artagnan seemed to flounder for a moment in an attempt to explain, ‘the leaves are red.’ D’Artagnan finally decided on.

Athos thought of the signs of autumn that were hard to miss.

‘There was an oak tree. Huge thing, in the garden. The grounds were covered in red leaves.’ D’Artagnan was clearly somewhere else, back in memories, a fine trembling beginning. Athos pressed closer, attempting to bring him back to the present, watching as the young man blinked, shooting a quick glance at him before he straightened slightly.

‘What do you want to happen now?’ Athos asked, turning his head to regard d’Artagnan.

In profile, he watched as d’Artagnan contemplated the wine bottle in his hand, turning it over and over in quick fingers before he looked up, fleetingly meeting Athos’s look. ‘I’ve thought of all the ways this can play out.’ D’Artagnan finally said.

‘I don’t think the duke would dare try anything here and now, the palace and the security is too much for one.’ Athos started for him.

‘Report him to their majesties- gain justice for your mother’s death.’ Aramis suggested quietly. Athos saw Porthos momentarily lay his hand on d’Artagnan’s arm, give it a squeeze as d’Artagnan’s breath hitched uneasily.

D’Artagnan regarded Aramis when he spoke. ‘There’s no proof.’ He said quietly. ‘My dad…my’ he floundered for a moment as he tried to decide the proper term now.

Athos came to his rescue ‘Alexandre d’Artagnan was more a dad to you than your biological father.’

Galvanised by the words, d’Artagnan smiled softly at him before he carried on answering Aramis. ‘My dad spoke of justice. But when he attempted to find a way to report the…events to the local constabulary, they ignored him. When he pressed, they threatened to have him thrown in a cell.’

‘He had you to fear for though. If anything happened to him, it would affect you also.’ Aramis pointed out.

‘No one will take the word of someone’s decades old memories. And worse, that of a child’s.’ D’Artagnan pointed out.

‘The duke will deny everything.’ Porthos spoke up. ‘It will be his word against d’Artagnan’s.’

‘And he is a duke.’ Athos finished quietly.

‘Doing nothing. Having him go home just like normal feels…unsatisfactory.’ Aramis said, a look of disgust on his face.

D’Artagnan shrugged, jostling the men sat by his side. ‘Nothing will have changed. Maybe that’s ok.’ He hesitated before adding, ‘I think that’s what my dad would advise.’

Aramis had begun to interrupt but stopped at the last sentence. d’Artagnan looked up at him, grinned slightly. ‘when I was young, I had a bit of a temper.’ A snort from more than one of the men at his side made him grin wider for a moment, his face instantly younger. ‘I was arguing with my dad one day…can’t even remember what we fighting about, but I ended up yelling at him “you’re not my father”.’ D’Artagnan winced even at the memory. ‘I’ll never forget the look on his face, the disappointment. But he didn’t yell back. He got…all quiet.’ D’Artagnan took a gulp of wine, handing it blindly out, Athos relieving it from his shaking hand. ‘He said that that was my choice. That he would never force me to stay, but that I would always have a home with him. I’ve never felt so…small in my life. Just the thought of not having him in my life- I felt sick. But he wouldn’t let me apologise, or say anything. Said I had to think about it. I managed about 10 minutes before I went and threw myself at his feet.’

D’Artagnan’s smile was wistful, his look on the floor, his attention clearly in the past.

‘When I asked him why he had said that, how he could…risk me leaving, he simply said that he would never force me to stay. He had been able to choose me as his son and that he would forever love me as his son. He gave everything up for me, and nothing I did could make him wish he had chosen differently.’ There were tears in his eyes, but d’Artagnan didn’t appear to notice.

‘Your father was a wise man.’ Athos commented quietly.

‘He gave me everything. He gave me my life, a home, a father.’ D’Artagnan said. ‘Everything. Even his death was not completely in vain, because it brought me to Paris. It brought me to a new family.’

Stilled, floored by the words, a deep, reverent silence settled in the room.

Aramis eventually broke it, after watching d’Artagnan run a hand over his face and blinking back the tears. ‘Your father would not want to risk us doing anything if it puts you in danger.’ He concluded what d’Artagnan had been trying to say.

‘Not for the duke.’ D’Artagnan nodded.

‘He’ll escape judgement.’

‘In this life, maybe.’ D’Artagnan agreed. Like many soldiers, d’Artagnan had always demonstrated an irreverence towards faith, but Aramis could hear an echo in his words, presumed d’Artagnan the elder had instilled the sentiment into his son, a way to live with the past, perhaps, a way to move on when justice was not possible. To live a life that wasn’t burned out before it started through an unrequited need for vengeance. It still felt unsatisfactory, but d’Artagnan had had to live with it for the past 20 years. They could learn to live with it too.

xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I really do appreciate all the comments and feedback you’ve taken the time to give and hope you continue to let me know what you think!


	6. chapter five

**Chapter five**

The parade through the streets of Paris the next day was long, boring and wholly without incident, largely due to the big dark clouds that loomed ominously low over the city, though they kindly waited until the royalty was back at the Louvre to let forth with their watery contents. D’Artagnan was on horseback, to the front left of the Royal carriage, keeping the small crowds that braved the threat of rain to glimpse their majesties back. Not that it was hard, most people too sensible to get in the way of the dozen large horses, large musketeers, or equally large carriage wheels. Porthos was mirroring him on the other side, Aramis and Athos completing the square at the back of the carriage.

Prayers for the King’s long life and great reign were offered in the small cathedral at the palace, the sweet sound of the hundred small boys making up the choir filling the space with their sung Eucharist. The Canon droned through an address that most of the musketeers didn’t even pretend to follow, except maybe Aramis, though even he fought not to look bored as it dragged on.

The evening ball, by contrast, was by far the biggest and loudest event of the weekend, the grand finale of the birthday weekend, including a sit down meal, live music and dancers, jugglers and other live entertainment. It stretched beyond the ball room to the great hallway, and several other wings of the Louvre, and would have spilled into the gardens except the earlier heavy showers had curtailed those plans. D’Artagnan had thought the Ball on the first night was spectacular, but that seemed a minor prelude now to the main event. The Louvre had never looked so elegant, spectacularly dressed up, like the thousand guests that milled about, the finery probably able to erase poverty in the city in one foul swoop.

The Musketeers and Red Guard were strung out through the Louvre, keeping the more excited patrons under control, and making sure the King and Queen remained unmolested when they toured the spectacle. They all assumed that the Duke would not dare try anything in such surroundings, if he was planning anything, though Athos, Aramis and Porthos kept a subtle eye on him throughout the evening, made easy by the fact the man stood out, even among such finery, in silks of peacock blue. His son was by his side at the start of the evening, dressed more classically in robes of deep green, but his look was downcast, his face pale as if he was ill, and no one was surprised when he retired early.

D’Artagnan didn’t bother worrying about the Duke himself. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about all the secrets that had been revealed. As he stood behind the king on the throne, watching the simpering mess and stilted words of powerful noblemen (who would normally be sneering down their noses at d’Artagnan) prostrating themselves at his Majesty’s feet, he fought to keep his thoughts in the ballroom and not worrying over the events of last night.

He’d woken up to a cricked neck and surrounded by his brothers, all of them having slept on the floor of his garrison room. It had been comforting, and he was startled that despite the few hours’ sleep they had had, the night had been dreamless and more restful than he had thought possible. The morning routine had been comforting in its normalness; nothing had changed, and whilst it was subtle d’Artagnan was glad of the efforts the others made to make it so. One of his fears was that they would view him differently, and it was comforting, as much as it was irritating as Porthos teased him, and Aramis fussed over them eating, and Athos issued orders as naturally as he breathed.

It was still somewhat perturbing to know that they knew, though.

Startling to know that the events that had shaped and controlled so much of his early years were now out in the open, after everything that his father had done to keep them secret. He wasn’t sure if the others would understand that he hadn’t deliberately been keeping it a secret as such. Not from them.

It was the truth that he didn’t think much on it during his waking hours. Twenty years, and whilst the events could hurt as deeply as when they had happened, time had allowed him to build walls to house the memories in. The scars that rippled the skin on his lower legs was a permanent reminder, but even they rarely provoked memories in the daylight hours, as much a part of him as his brown hair. The nights were always worse, when his unconscious mind had free reign to remember, to augment, to torture him with the memories.

He wasn’t ashamed of his past. His father had never let him be. But he had grown up with one unbreakable rule, the one rule d’Artagnan had never broken: that he never speak of the events to anyone but his dad. Even through his angry adolescence when he had pushed and shoved at every boundary his dad had ever enforced, he had never spoken of it, to anyone, ever. He had lived his whole life by that one rule and knowing that he had broken it felt wrong, even in the circumstances, even though he knew there was little choice.

Ironically, d’Artagnan didn’t even remember the events all that well. He told the story in the third person not just because it was easier, a way to detach himself from the events, but also because it had been told to him that way by his father. His own memories were broken, fractured bits of pictures that didn’t make any sense viewed alone. And whilst he revisited it regularly in his dreams, the dreams changed, warped, twisted till he had little idea what was real, what was imagination.

The perspective changed. Sometimes he watched it from above. Sometimes he stood next to the Duke. Usually he was desperately, desperately trying to get closer to his mother. He would be held back, though. Held by ropes against a wooden stake. Or held by slithering snakes tying themselves around his middle. Sometimes nothing held him back but however much he tried, however much he desperately ran towards his mother, he could only keep watching as the flames engulfed her and she continued to scream.

Sometimes his mother lived. Her green eyes would look up at him from her burnt face, and she would beg him to help. Mostly she died, but the time it took, how she died changed.

The screams, though, they didn’t change. Her screams were set to forever haunt his nightmares.

And the red leaves never changed. They littered the floor, crackled in the flames, flew in the wind, but were always present. An annual reminder every time Autumn rolled around.

And the eyes of the man that watched it all with an impassive look on his face was always the same.

Sometimes he looked like a monster. Had a scaly body. Or devil’s horns. Maybe claws instead of hands. Or fur; patchy and mangy. Or long sabre teeth. Face like a wolf. Or a leviathan. Sometimes he was simply a man, scarier in a way when he was just…normal.

But his eyes. His eyes…they were always the same. D’Artagnan could never forget his eyes. They haunted him, every time he looked in the mirror. The eyes that looked back at him, dark and watchful, identical to those in his dreams, the one part of his looks he had inherited from his father.

He shuddered, forcing his mind back to the present but the sound of the crowds suddenly seemed too loud, the light of a thousand torches too bright, the air stiflingly hot. A brief touch on his shoulder and he startled slightly, looked up to Athos who was studiously looking out at the crowd. ‘We’ve been ordered to patrol the grounds.’ He said, nodding to his other side, where two other musketeers stood ready to take on the duty of guarding the king.

D’Artagnan followed Athos out into the quiet and dark grounds, breathing in the fresh and cleansing air. They walked in silence for a long time, round the palace to the back of the grounds, seeing no one but a few servants emptying rubbish into the waste pits.

They crossed the stables, and d’Artagnan remembered the Duke hiding in wait for him there, only yesterday though it felt longer. He’d been startled, and then annoyed as the Duke stepped out of him, d’Artagnan too slow to reach, finding himself pushed flat against the wall of the stable and unable to reach for a weapon. D’Artagnan hadn’t been entirely truthful about the event, though to be fair it had been a minor point of all that had been revealed last evening. His father had held his shiny unused sword to d’Artagnan’s throat, holding him in place. Luckily, the sword really was mostly a decorative jewel on his belt, the blade dull as it pressed against his throat.

‘I couldn’t believe it, last night. When I realised who you were.’

‘Must have been a shock.’ D’Artagnan had been shocked that he could keep his voice so mild when faced with the monster of his childhood. There, in the cold stable, the sound of horses moving uneasily in their stalls, the unique equine smell filling his nostril, the monster looked old. It didn’t stop his heartbeat tripping into a fast, uneven beat, cold sweat to break out, and a fear as old as he was running through him.

‘You look like her.’ There was accusation in the Duke’s voice, as if it was purely d’Artagnan’s fault that he looked more like his mother than his father. ‘You should be dead.’

‘You should know; you were the one who ordered it.’

‘Dead.’ The Duke had all but whispered, and d’Artagnan, somewhat abstractedly, realised his father almost sounded scared.

‘You think repeating it is going to make it anymore real?’ d’Artagnan drew himself up to his father’s height, pushing against the steel held against his throat.

‘I searched for you. But you and that gardner’ he spat the job title as if it was truly offensive, ‘had disappeared. I assumed you’d died anyway.’ The Duke was searching d’Artagnan’s face as if hoping for a sign that he wasn’t really who he was. ‘I heard someone call you his name, though.’

They were interrupted before he could continue, a couple of stable boys noisily arguing about a game of dice coming in through a side door, neither of them having any idea what they had interrupted. D’Artagnan pushed the Duke away, putting much needed distance between him and the man, as the stable boys realised they weren’t as alone as they had thought.

‘Alright, d’Artagnan?’ One of them called out, recognising the musketeer who often graced the stables and was always polite to them.

‘Yeah, Lons, I’m good. Busy few days. Never seen the palace so packed.’ D’Artagnan responded, stepping further from the Duke.

‘I know, never seen nothing like it.’ The second boy, Eric agreed, reaching out and patting a horses’ head when it came down to snuffle in hope at his pockets.

‘What’s ‘e doing ‘ere?’ Lons asked, peering at the man who was stood in d’Artagnan’s shadow now.

‘The Duke wanted to be sure his stead was well cared for. I reassured him that only the best stable hands worked in his majesty’s stable.’

‘course, they do.’ Lons agreed with his cheeky grin. ‘the horses ‘ere get fed better than we do.’ He joked.

The Duke turned and disappeared, probably recognising that whatever he had come to do wouldn’t be happening just then. When Treville had appeared five minutes later, d’Artagnan had been standing ready, both horses saddled and waiting, the adrenaline rush mostly subsiding to a fear d’Artagnan hadn’t felt for a long time.

He cast his look now away from the stable, towards the grounds and the palace, blanking his mind of the Duke and the threats. He didn’t think the Duke would try anything, and knew that with his friends aware, he would be protected anyway. But a childhood fear, the memories of the cold look on his father’s face as his mother screamed, had him wanting his dad, his real dad, the man who had saved him all those years ago, with a longing that threatened to take his breath away.

‘Ok?’ Athos asked at length, breaking the silence as they completed the circuit of the palace, the sound of the river running somewhere to their left masking their voices from anyone who might be listening. A few guests wandered the grounds in front of the palace, new or old conquests on their arms as they looked for a spot of privacy in the gardens, only to be denied by the Red Guard or Musketeers also patrolling the area.

D’Artagnan nodded, for once the more silent of their partnership.

‘The guests will disperse tomorrow. The city will return to normality.’ The unspoken question and comment that he only had to last till then.

‘Not sure what normal is now.’ D’Artagnan finally found his voice, speaking one of the fears of telling them all his sordid childhood tale.

Athos shrugged. ‘Everything and nothing has changed.’ He said at length, d’Artagnan feeling his intense stare like a burn on his cheek. He frowned as he thought this over.

‘Not one of us can choose our family. And it would be poor on our part, if after everything you know about us, we let such events cloud our view of you.’

‘That’s…’ d’Artagnan swallowed, comforted somewhere deep inside at having his fears allayed so simply.

Athos didn’t appear to expect him to finish the sentence, merely clasped his forearm in a long grip before they moved off again, d’Artagnan soothed and able to believe that there would be an ending to the nightmare.

~~

Athos could see the effect of his words in the instant release of tension that had seemed to hold d’Artagnan it its grip all day. His shoulders relaxed, his face smoothed out, his whole demeanour returned more towards normal leaving Athos to wonder on the thoughts that the young man had been torturing himself with.

Porthos had been the one to alert him to d’Artagnan, stood on the dais behind the king, pale and staring in the chaos of the ball. Athos was glad that it would take someone who knew d’Artagnan well to see that he wasn’t watching the crowds as he appeared to be doing so, and he had been the one to order two musketeers to take his place, dragging a willing d’Artagnan into the quiet grounds for a much needed breather on the pretext of patrolling.

The tension had still been wrapped around d’Artagnan and Athos knew that more needed to be said but that it would take the Duke leaving the city (in a body bag may have been all of their preferences, but it was an unlikely dream) for things to begin to settle.

Hearing the whisper of some of d’Artagnan’s fear, that they would view him as different, Athos was quick to debunk. Glad he had when the weight seemed to lift from d’Artagnan’s shoulders in a long exhalation.

They re-entered the chaos of the ballroom, Athos recognising the fast dance _Courante_ being completed by a group of dancers, accompanied by the live musicians. After showing appreciation of the talent on display, the dance floor was soon swamped by couples wanting to show off their own, rather less graceful moves as the music struck up again. He looked around, spying Porthos standing motionless in the corner of the room giving him the best view of the entrance and the crowd of dancers. He briefly met Athos’s look, nodding a greeting before his eyes briefly went to d’Artagnan returning to Athos with a raised eyebrow, the question obvious. Athos briefly nodded, moving off into the crowds, d’Artagnan more himself as they began to herd the increasingly drunk noble off to their beds. He didn’t even mind as he was separated from d’Artagnan by the need to be in more places than there were guards. D’Artagnan was back with it, and when they had swung past Aramis earlier, the marksman had indicated the Duke had already retired to bed.

It was a long night, the hour closer to dawn before Athos caught up with the others, watching with Porthos as Aramis and d’Artagnan buddied up to convince the last of the party to go to bed. A skeleton guard would stay, larger than the normal night guard, but Treville released them back to the garrison, all of them glad the weekend was over and not just because of the obvious. They were all exhausted, none of them having slept that much the night before, and they were expected back to normal duties the next day, but they were all longing for their own beds, even for a few hours.

Athos slept deeply, the morning bells waking him still tired, but without a hangover to compound the feeling. He wasn’t surprised to find Aramis and Porthos already seated, empty bowls in front of them showing they hadn’t waited for him and d’Artagnan to arrive before eating breakfast. He frowned at that thought; d’Artagnan wasn’t known to sleep in, he had been teased often enough for his early morning habits. Aramis must have followed his thoughts as he was quick to put him at ease. ‘Treville sent him on a missive delivery.’

‘Where?’ Athos asked unsurprised now that he was over that initial moment of panic; it wasn’t the first time d’Artagnan had been sent on an early morning mission simply because he was first at the garrison.

He grabbed the bowl of hot oats that Porthos held out to him as he answered ‘Amadiers. Should only be gone an hour or two.’

‘At least it’s not raining.’ Aramis commented, looking up at the light grey cloud that hung unmoving above them.

‘Did Treville have any other orders?’ Athos asked between mouthfuls.

‘Training.’ Porthos told him with a grin.

Athos couldn’t help feeling relieved that they weren’t being expected to do anything. It felt like he hadn’t stopped in a long time.

‘Palace later.’ Aramis added.

He sighed. He should have known it would be too good to be true.

The morning was cut short, a messenger from the Palace asking Treville to send his guard early. Treville looked like he wanted to roll his eyes but contained it, looking over at Athos and Aramis, who had been throwing each other somewhat half heartidly around the garrison in a pretension at training. Porthos stepped over, having taken money off some naive cadets who believed a musketeer couldn’t shoot a moving target. That wasn’t just Aramis’s trick, he just happened to be able to do it better. Blindfolded for example.

‘Go.’ Treville simply commanded. ‘D’Artagnan is due to deliver the reply there on his way back, he can join you.’

Athos nodded, and walked over to retrieve the jacket and weapons belt he had abandoned on the table. They were mostly quiet as they returned to the Palace, all of them thinking that they could have quite happily stayed away longer.

Lons, the blond stable boy stepped forward to take their horses, grinning at them. He was unfailingly cheerful, whatever was going on; Athos didn’t trust anyone that happy for no reason. ‘Athos.’ The boy smiled, completely unshaken at Athos’s barely concealed glare in return. ‘thought you’d get at least a day off.’

‘No rest for the wicked.’ Aramis commented, passing his own reigns to Lons.

‘You just missed d’Artagnan.’ Lons told them, fussing over the horses who preened at the attention and nosed at his pockets.

‘Oh?’ Athos asked. He knew d’Artagnan, in his usual way, was always friendly with the stable boys, like he was with the porters and guards, and cooks alike, and wasn't surprised that he would have spoken to Lons. Athos could remember many times waiting impatiently whilst d’Artagnan chatted to the boys about some aspect of horse care, or some palace gossip.

‘Yeah, he didn’t stay long, said he just had a letter to deliver.’

Athos felt eyes on him and looked up at Aramis. ‘Want me to go get him?’ He asked.

Athos wasn’t sure he would trust either of them to return if he gave Aramis a legitimate reason to leave, so he shook his head. ‘Leave him. I’m sure whatever is needed, won’t need all of us. No point all of us being here.’

By the look on Aramis’s face, he was clearly wondering why he also needed to be there, but he dutifully followed Athos into the palace. The highly trained King’s musketeers found themselves standing guard over the king as some of the most influential noblemen in France came and bowed before him, offering their birthday congratulations and sincere thank you for the weekend. And to ask for a favour or two whilst they were down there. Why a musketeer guard was needed for such a duty was a mystery, why it was wanted soon become clear, because having three highly trained musketeers dressed in full uniform and cloak was an intimidating show, and every nobleman who came to prostrate before the king took a second look at the blatant show of power.

Athos was just finished glaring at a blatant lack of attention from Aramis, who had been intimately studying the ceiling, when he stiffened, his hand automatically moving towards his sword hilt as the Duke walked in. He felt Aramis shift next to him, glanced over to see both him and Porthos had unconsciously done the same, the slow burn of anger that had long settled in the pit of his stomach since learning about the man flaring bright once again.

The familiarity that Athos had sensed the first time he had seen the man now made sense. Knowing what to look for, he could see that whilst d’Artagnan didn’t particularly look like his father, the eyes were the same, the shape, the colour of them. He wondered what d’Artagnan’s mother had looked like.

‘Ah, the good Duke of Toulouse.’ The king said, not bothering to straighten from where he was slumped slightly on his throne, cup of wine in hand. ‘Where is your son?’

The man looked uncomfortable as he rose from his bow. ‘He sends his apologies, your majesty, he…he is not well.’ Athos felt his eyes narrow at such a blatant lie, but stayed silent, his look intent.

‘Shame.’ The king answered, insincerely. ‘his introduction to court could have gone…smoother.’ The king sounded amused by it all.

‘Yes, your majesty.’ The Duke agreed, his eyes down cast.

‘You are returning to Toulouse today?’ the king asked, his voice suggesting that anything but an answer to the positive would not be well received.

‘Uh…yes, your majesty, that is the plan.’ He straightened himself to his full height, but Athos could see he looked somewhat uncomfortable. Wary of something. Studying him more, Athos decided it wasn’t as simple as that. The man looked perturbed by something, and he didn’t like the way his look frequently flickered to the three of them, the look searching. Athos was quite glad right then that d’Artagnan wasn’t there to have to stand before this man. ‘Thank you for the invitation, your majesty, it was an honour to be here.’

‘Don’t wait so long, next time.’ The king commanded, though he didn’t sound all that sincere.

‘No, your majesty.’ Hearing the dismissal, the Duke bowed low, taking two steps back before turning and walking out with hurried steps.

Athos caught the shared look between Aramis and Porthos, knew he wasn’t the only one with a feeling of relief that the Duke would soon be out of the city. The relief, however, couldn’t completely blanket the foreboding that he had been experiencing the whole weekend. At least he didn't have to worry about d’Artagnan, safely back at the garrison by now, hopefully staying out of trouble.

Thankfully, the king grew bored of the spectacle a little while after they did, and decided it was time to eat instead. They weren’t outright dismissed, and stood around impatiently till a guard remembered to come and tell them the king no longer required their immediate service.

‘Should have sent Lons after d’Artagnan.’ Aramis commented as they made their way back to the garrison. ‘The king is always in a better mood with him to talk to.’

‘At least he didn’t have to see the Duke again.’ Porthos reminded him.

Aramis nodded, looking a little guilty about his comment as he thought about it. ‘Yes. But the Duke will soon be gone.’

‘Weird, in it?’ Porthos commented. ‘You can see a bit of the Duke in him. When you look.’

‘The eyes.’ Athos agreed.

‘To think someone like d’Artagnan could come from him.’ Aramis said.

‘I was thinking last night.’ Athos commented quietly as they neared the garrison. ‘I never really asked d’Artagnan about the past before.’ There was censure in his words, that he had been remiss in such a thing.

‘None of us have.’ Porthos corrected.

‘D’Artagnan was never really forthcoming, either.’ Aramis added.

They were silent as they all pondered the thought. Perhaps d’Artagnan had been reluctant to talk of his past. In retrospect, Athos couldn’t remember him ever willingly start a conversation about it before. He hadn’t really even thought it strange, even.

Perhaps they should have taken the time to ask. Perhaps the amount of time Athos had tried to forget about his own past meant that he had not even considered d’Artagnan’s. Or perhaps it was because the boy was just too damn young, that when he had stormed into the garrison filled with grief and rage they had all forgotten that he hadn’t been born the day he’d watched his dad die on the road to Paris.

Then again, perhaps it was because they had known all they needed to. Athos allowed his thoughts to wander to all they knew of the young man. His strength in the face of insurmountable odds. The fire and passion and honour they had all come to rely on. The sheer stubbornness that could be so infuriating. The quick mind, quick wit, and even quicker feet and hands in a fight. Maybe they hadn’t asked about his past because they hadn’t felt the need to: they had learnt all they felt they needed, fighting at the young man’s side, sharing a deserved drink or meal, watching him grow into the pauldron that had been more than earned. Athos couldn’t remember ever feeling as proud as he had the day he had fastened the leather strap to d’Artagnan’s upper arm.

‘The time for secrets has passed.’ Athos murmured, mostly to himself though the two men by his side caught the words, and the heartfelt emotion behind it, and simply nodding their agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my thanks for all the support and reviews- I can’t lie, I do love them!   
> Apologies if this feels a little like a filler chapter, it felt too long if I ran it to the next natural break. Anyway, next update hopefully soon (just doing a little editing on the go!)


	7. chapter six

**Chapter Six**

‘I’m starved.’ Porthos announced, effectively breaking the atmosphere not so much with his words, but by the noise his stomach chose at that moment to elicit.

Aramis looked over in mock shock at the sound. ‘It’s not been that long!’

‘Not that long?’ Porthos asked in astonishment. ‘It’s been hours! Missed lunch standing guard di’n’t we?’

‘Anyone would think you hadn’t eaten for a week.’ Aramis said, staring in astonishment as Porthos’s stomach repeated the noise. ‘Better get you fed before your stomach eats you.’ He added with a mock shudder.

Walking into the garrison they almost as one glanced over at the table, expecting to see d’Artagnan but finding a crowd of other musketeers sitting there. The garrison held two dozen or more musketeers, finished with lunch and sitting or standing around, only a few of the more enthusiastic recruits taking the opportunity to train. Athos looked around at the group, expecting to see d’Artagnan, who always seemed to have energy, in the middle of the fighting. He frowned unconsciously when there was no sign of him, searching more closely the men sat around, the sense of foreboding that had been plaguing him all weekend growing with the more frantic looking.

‘Perhaps he’s in his room?’ Aramis suggested. Part of Athos’s brain registered that it was Aramis making the logical suggestions, as they led their horses towards the stables. Athos forced himself to concentrate, searching the large stables for sign of d’Artagnan’s gelding, relieved when he located it, standing docile, eating the hay on offer as the stable boy groomed the mare next to him.

The young stable boy looked up at him, and as always, tried to hide behind the bulk of the horse rather than be seen by the musketeers. He had been there over half a year and still shied away from all of them. ‘Did you see d’Artagnan?’ Athos asked, making an effort to keep any hint of command or abruptness from his tone.

‘Earlier.’ The boy’s voice was quiet, but carried easily over the soft whinnying of the horses. ‘Ordered me to take his horse.’

Athos frowned slightly at that. D’Artagnan rarely missed any opportunity to be with the horses, taking the time whenever possible to ensure the comfort of his own animal rather than leave it to the stable boys. It was nothing against the stable boys, as some had assumed at first. D’Artagnan had always got on well with them, and enjoyed working at their side, but he was driven to be around the horses and never missed an opportunity if there was time.

Miss-reading the frown, the stable boy stepped further backward into the shadows of the stables. ‘Weren’t a problem, I didn’t mind, I didn’t mean that I didn’t want to take the horse.’

Athos looked over at the babbling, taking a moment to comprehend the words. He waved away the worry immediately, though somewhat impatiently. ‘What was he doing?’ He asked, his voice rather sharp and he hid the sigh as he watched the boy cower. ‘I mean what kept d’Artagnan from taking care of his horse?’ He asked more gently.

‘I… that is, he was outside the gates. Think someone was waiting to speak to him. Dressed all fancy like.’

‘Describe him.’ Athos said, deliberately fighting to keep worry from sharpening his tone.

‘I don’t know more. Barely saw him. He had a guard. Massive guy.’ The guy gestured with his hands. ‘Big as Porthos.’

Aramis stepped forward, gentle hand landing on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Its fine, Stan. You’re not in any trouble. Can you think what the man looked like?’

But the boy shook his head, only able to stutter out more about the large guard. Aramis reassured him again before releasing him back to the horse with obvious relief, following Athos and Porthos to the door. ‘I don’t like it.’ Athos announced, in case any of them were in doubt.

‘The Duke?’ Porthos asked.

Athos shrugged.

‘He is at the palace.’ Aramis reminded him.

‘A convenient alibi.’ Athos commented.

‘Only one way to find out.’ Porthos said, shaking his head at another stable boy who had appeared to help with their horses. They remounted and left the way they had just entered, heading back to the palace, even Porthos forgetting his hunger.

The Duke was surprisingly easy to find, sitting in his suite of rooms, the door answered by one of his household staff. He didn’t even seem surprised to see them, looking older and almost frail as they walked in. The staff melted into the background, looking fearful though Athos didn’t care if it was of them or the Duke at that moment.

‘Where’s d’Artagnan?’ Athos asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Athos countered, his voice quiet and cold as steel.

‘I don’t know…’ The duke had no problems meeting his eye. ‘I…I haven’t seen him since yesterday at the ball.’

‘You threatened him.’ Athos said, looming over the man. ‘Saturday night, you cornered him in the stables. Worried he would tell the king about you?’

Some of the natural power that seemed to emanate from all nobility radiated out as the Duke straightened, drawing himself up gracefully to stand, his height giving him a couple of inches to look down on Athos. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’ He stated, ‘I have not threatened anyone. I simply wished to speak to the musketeer about security arrangements.’

Aramis snorted ineloquently. ‘You expect us to believe that you didn’t recognise your own son? Must have been quite a surprise to see him alive and well after all this time.’ Aramis voice dropped, the tone as deadly as his aim as he stepped forward, crowding the man’s space with Athos. ‘Quite a shock to realise he was one of the king’s trusted musketeer.’

Athos could almost feel the barely controlled anger rolling off Aramis, felt it resonating through Porthos and himself as they looked at the man who was responsible for d’Artagnan’s being, and the man who had tried to end him as well.

‘Where’s your younger son?’ Porthos asked, the question taking Athos, and clearly Aramis too, by surprise.

‘That’s none of your concern.’ The Duke snapped back.

‘What does he think of his brother?’ Athos asked.

‘He has no brother. I only have one son.’ The Duke bristled, speaking a line that had clearly been repeated many times down the years.

‘Would have been so much easier, I suppose.’ Aramis tone was ice. ‘pretending for so many years.’ He paused, staring at the duke. ‘Pretending you never had another son.’

Athos was growing impatient. Anger, fear and hate for a man that could do something so cruel and then stand and deny it to their face rolling together, making him almost shake with rage. He grabbed the man’s collar, forcing him back in the chair, leaning menacingly over him. ‘Tell us where your son is.’

‘I don’t know.’ The duke admitted, his tone suddenly oddly…fearful.

‘I suggest you talk. Otherwise my colleague is going to grow bored and beat the truth out of you instead.’ Athos’s cultured tone made the words all the more threatening.

‘I don’t know.’ The Duke repeated, the sound of Porthos’s knuckles cracking making him flinch. ‘I…I woke up late this morning, and he was already gone. He was upset…he…one of my household staff is with him, Pierre.’

‘Why was he upset?’

‘I…I told him. Yesterday. Everything. He was complaining about the musketeer d’Artagnan, about some slight on the hunt, and…I didn’t mean to say anything, but to hear that name again.’

‘And he wasn’t pleased.’ Aramis guessed.

‘He was so angry.’

‘He thinks he has competition to his inheritance.'

'I told him that Henri was nothing.’ That was the wrong thing to say. The duke shrank back as Athos towered over him, angry beyond words. He carried on in a hasty stutter. 'He wouldn’t calm down, though, he was… he wouldn’t stop. He demanded to know how Henri had survived the fire. I didn't know how to calm him down. He kept going on and on that Henri must hold some power to walk away from the fire unscathed.’

‘What did he mean by power?’ Aramis said, his voice still deadly quiet but knowing they needed all the information they could get.

‘That Henri’s mother’s powers must have protected him, that it was unnatural that he is alive.'

‘You brainwashed him.’ Athos spat.

‘No, no. But…my son has always had a great faith, a belief in the Church. He is… passionate. He always has been. He…spent time in a monastery.’ Athos could see there was a whole story behind that they didn’t have time to explore. But boys Edwin’s age were only sent to monaterys for punishment. The “incident” perhaps, that Gilbert spoke of?

Aramis hid a sigh as he realised the implications. A zealous religious catholic, who believed in the burning of witches. Though the practice was dying out, it still existed, and in some Churches was still preached along with flagellation and the punishment of sin through various tortures. Within the bigger cities and towns, the practice was very rare, but out in the countryside, especially within the large, closed monasteries, it certainly wasn’t unheard of. It didn’t help that the pope still refused to denounce such practices.

'Did he wish to cleanse d’Artagnan?’ He asked quietly. That could be bad. Whipping. Being half drowned in water. All were popular practices.

But the Duke shook his head, refusing to meet Aramis’s eye as he said quietly ‘he spoke of the need to burn the power to stop it spreading.’

Aramis felt his heart clench with fear. ‘Where would he take d'Artagnan for such an act?' he asked, feeling desperation well up inside of him at the thought of d’Artagnan being burnt alive.

'A church.'

'No shortage of them in Paris.' Porthos scoffed at the unhelpful answer.

'Catholic. High Catholic.' Aramis corrected himself, before the duke could reply. 'And with space. not in the city proper, not enough room to make a pyre. A belief in burning.' Aramis's suddenly animated face caught Athos's awareness.

'Where?' Athos asked, with absolute certainty that Aramis knew.

Aramis didn't answer, instead waving a hand at the Duke. 'Deal with him and quickly, we have no time to waste.' He instructed.

Athos followed the order, turning and smartly punching the Duke in the face. Porthos huffed in disappointment that he hadn’t got to do that. All Athos could think was how much more he wanted to do to the man, to the duke. To inflict on him as much pain as he had inflicted on d’Artagnan. But all he wanted to do in vengeance to the man sat bleeding in front of him would take time, precious time that they didn’t have.

He walked out, stopping to haul the servant out from where he was cowering behind the door. ‘Don’t touch him.’ He said, the man nodding shakily. They had barely gone a few steps though before they saw a Red Guard, Athos instructing him to keep the Duke under guard.

‘But he’s meant to be leaving.’ The Guard commented in confusion, mostly to their backs.

‘He goes nowhere.’ Athos threatened, not even bothering to look back as he strode away after Aramis and Porthos, leaving the Guard to find the Duke and understand his meaning. Further explanations would have to wait.

xxx

D’Artagnan’s day had started far earlier than he had planned. The early morning garrison had been blissfully cool and quiet after a night of half remembered dreams and haunting figures. He had escaped to the stables, forgetting himself in the routine of grooming the horses, checking their feet and legs for any cuts or stiff muscles, mending tack, oiling leather. The activities he had learnt at his dad’s knee had always calmed him, no matter how troubled his thoughts. Soothed and grounded, he had even been hungry by the time he smelt breakfast, breaking his fast with a bowl of warm oats.

By the time he had been joined at the table by Aramis and Porthos, he was even up to talking, greeting them chirpily, knowing how easy it was to wind them up being too damn cheerful first thing in the morning. It had been wholly unsatisfying that he had simply been greeted back, both men having benefitted from sleep in their own rooms for once and not nursing hangovers for once.

The easy comradery had been broken by a shadow appearing at their table. Not Athos, as they had been expecting, but Treville, returning from an early visit to the palace, a rolled scroll in his hand. Being the only one to have finished eating, d’Artagnan didn’t even mind accepting the easy delivery to some Governor in the east of the city. Being out on a delivery meant he couldn’t be sent to the Palace. He had got through last night, but didn’t know if he had it in him to do it again. ‘Wait for the reply, it is expected at the palace this morning.’ Treville had added, turning to Aramis before d’Artagnan could quite process that his plan hadn’t turned out quite as he had wanted. Though he knew better than to argue with orders from Treville. ‘Training for the rest of you. A guard will be needed this afternoon at the palace, report there after the midday bell.’

D’Artagnan heaved himself to his feet and tucked the letter safely into his jerkin, letting a smirk quirk his lips as he faced the others. ‘Have fun training.’ He said, disappearing towards the stable before either could ask the questions clear on their faces.

The governor lived out in Amadiers, and the road had been busy but moving. As he hadn’t been told to rush d’Artagnan was happy to move with the crowd rather than force his way around them. The staff at the governor’s large country house had been more welcoming than some, allowing d’Artagnan food and drink in the large kitchen as he waited for the reply. He had just been starting to grow restless, finding himself wishing he were training with the others instead of cooling his heels, when the head servant brought back the reply, the cook allowing him a final slice of bread and butter before he departed.

The trip back had been quicker, and d’Artagnan headed dutifully, if reluctantly, towards the palace. He knew who was there, and the complicated feelings and emotions that were roused whenever he thought of the duke hadn’t made stepping into the place comfortable. At least with a missive delivery, he hadn’t had to venture further than the first important looking person he had seen, handing off the letter and escaping as quickly as possible.

He wished that the duke was gone already. He was due to leave that day along with most of the nobility who had descended on Paris for the King’s birthday, but it didn’t seem quick enough. Paris was his home, had been for over a year. It was the first place he had settled with no lingering memories of his dad, or, until recently anyway, any connection to the duke. It left him feeling off kilter, and he wanted his home back. He knew, though, even with the duke gone, that Paris was never going to feel quite the same again.

He had spent longer talking to Lons than he had in the palace, listening to the excited gossip of who had been found with whom in the gardens though it held little interest. He eventually managed to excuse himself, hungry and wanting to return to the garrison for lunch, detouring on the way home through the busy market to pick up fresh apples.

He had wondered, as he had slowly followed the crowds, how naive he had been to not consider that the duke might well turn up in Paris. But as much as the dreams would always be a part of his life, as much as the scars would stay with him forever, he honesty had never spent much time thinking about his “real” father. His dad had never let him for a start.

The years growing up had not been easy. Alexandre d’Artagnan had taken them to neighbouring Gascony, where they had started from scratch. His dad had begged jobs, working all hours and showing off his vast skill set, until he had gained the trust to work as an estate manager for a land owner. From there he had built up to a farm, by the time they had left for the fateful trip to London he was a well respected member of the small village of Lupiac, no one having any idea of their beginnings.

Through it all, Alexandre d’Artagnan had taught the young Charles, as he had been known then, about hard work. From the day he had rescued him, d’Artagnan had referred to the man as dad. In truth, the man had pretty much lived in their house, and d’Artagnan had known more of him than his actual dad. It had seemed natural to call him father, further cementing their spun story.

His father had never let him have much time to dwell on the past, anyway. Once the burns on his legs had healed, he had worked alongside his father, had learned everything he possibly could about anything his father had to teach him. And had had fun. He’d learnt to mend broken fences, or care for livestock. He’d been taught the seasons, and arable farming, when to plant and when to harvest. When to leave alone and when to interfere. He had been taught other things as well. His father had taught him to duel, perhaps the only positive outlet he had found for the anger during adolescence. He had learned to read and write. When they had started breeding horses, he had learnt everything there was to know about tending the herd. There had never been time to sit and wonder at all that might have been. Apart from angry teenage rants, his mouth moving faster than his brain could keep up, words that were regretted as soon as they were said, he honestly never doubted his new father.

He had mourned his mother, but he had been five years old when it had happened. The memories of her had faded as he had grown. His blood father took on mythical portions in his dreams, but barely ventured into his waking thoughts. It had been him and his dad throughout his childhood, until the fateful night his dad had been shot. And he hadn’t been lying the other night; it had been a high cost, but even his father’s death had brought him to a new family in Paris. He thought of the nightmare if he had been in Lupiac without his father.

He had been distracted enough by the thoughts that when he finally drew close to the Garrison he had almost been surprised to see the entrance way. He had dismounted in the crowds around the market, and had been leading his horse in through the gates when he thought he heard his name being called over the noise of the crowd.

The second call had made him look up, searching the crowd properly in response. He frowned as he recognised the young man from the hunt, the one the king had been ready to punish for taking a shot before him. D’Artagnan had kept his face deliberately blank, even as he had wondered what on earth the young man was doing here, in the busy and crowded city rather than back in the palatial settings of the Louvre, or heading back to wherever he was from. Dressed in smart navy jerkin and breeches, the boy had stood out sharply amongst the common people of Paris. A servant, taller and certainly packing far more muscle than the young man stood protectively at his side, looking impassively out at the crowds. For all intents and purposes he had been ignoring d’Artagnan, so d’Artagnan had ignored him. Stupid in hindsight, he knew now.

Seeing one of the young boys from the stables attempting to sneak out of the garrison unnoticed, d’Artagnan instructed him to take the horse back inside and turned to the young noble, curiosity propelling his steps forward to find out why he was being sought out in the middle of Paris by a young man he didn’t know except for the embarrassment from the hunt.

‘Can I help you?’ He had asked as he stepped closer, watching as the young man pulled the crucifix he wore around his neck free from the jacket, kissing it before letting it fall, the gold glinting dully in the overcast day. D’Artagnan had been reminded of Aramis by the act and remembered almost smiling. Brown eyes met his, and closer to him, within a metre, d’Artagnan didn’t realise he had come to an abrupt stop, recognition warring with confusion as he stared into such familiar eyes.

It was his last coherent thought, taken completely by surprise as he had come face to face with the heir that had taken his place, d’Artagnan hadn’t seen the metal knuckle duster on the servant’s fist, barely felt it connect to his temple as he slipped headlong into unconsciousness, long before his body hit the dirt.

He wished he could stay now in the comforting darkness of the unconsciousness that held him, but he could feel the peace being firmly stripped away, the tacky warm covering over his forehead and pounding head reminding him of the hit.

He could feel the intense heat against his lower legs. He could hear the crackle of the flames as they caught whatever they were burning, the smell of smoking wood filling his nostrils. The taste of smoke coated his tongue, his nostrils, making him want to gag, the apples sitting heavy in his gut. His mind reeled in fear at the memories invoked of a fire long ago, his mother’s screams as loud and as real in his mind as they had been 20 years ago. He could feel the flames and knew a terror that he hadn’t felt since then. He was going to be burnt alive, his brother finishing off what his father, what the duke hadn’t managed to do all those years ago. Burned simply because his very existence was viewed as a threat.

He managed to get his eyes open, squinting as his head pounded in the sudden light. He struggled, trying to focus on the young man now, who stood with the crucifix held clenched in his fist, watching his servant fan the flames that were quickly eating through the pile of woods. ‘Why are you doing this?’ D’Artagnan forced the words out past his hammering heart. His head pounded harshly with the noise.

The young man started at the words, clearly not expecting him to wake up. He answered quickly enough though. ‘Because you lived when you should have died.’

‘What?’ D’Artagnan watched the flames coming ever closer, struggled more against the ropes that bound him to a central stake.

‘You were meant to burn for your mother’s sin.’ The young man claimed, rosary beads clutched tight in his hand.

‘My mother wasn’t a witch.’ D’Artagnan shouted, his awareness growing as adrenaline and fear fought off the effects of the head injury. He struggled ever more desperately against the ropes that held him so tightly.

‘Your mother was a witch and she had to burn.’ The young man’s voice sounded old, brimming with confidence as it twisted in religious fervour. ‘you should never have been allowed to live.’

Desperation leant strength to his movements but it was useless, the ropes were too tight, binding him fast against the post allowing him no leverage to even attempt to break free. ‘You don’t care about my mother! You’re worried I’ll try and claim your inheritance.’

The young man’s eyes sparked with righteous fury. ‘Your mother was a harlot! She bewitched my father.’

‘I don’t want anything from him. I will never speak of it ever. I never have.’ D’Artagnan yelled then coughed as the smoke caught in his throat. He could feel the heat against his legs, his chest, his face.

‘I’m a musketeer- kill me and you will hang!’ D’Artagnan yelled when the coughing stopped, only to make it start again.

‘You’re a bastard!’ the young man flung back at him, his tone seething. ‘you don’t deserve to live!’

‘Your father committed sin too!’ D’Artagnan pointed out.

‘My father was duped by a witch.’

‘Your father was desperate for a son.’

‘You were never his son! You were born in unnatural circumstances. I am the one true son!’

‘I don’t care! Did you think I ever want to be seen as the duke’s son? After he burnt my mother alive. After he tried to kill me?’

But d’Artagnan could see that the words weren’t getting through, that the fervour that burned in the young man’s eyes, as brightly as the fire mere feet away now, was not going to be distinguished so easily. D’Artagnan was going to be burned, and he fought like a man possessed to get free as the flames crept closer, licking at his boots now, the heat intense against his skin. His mother’s screams surrounded him. The eyes of a monster watched it all. And he shouted in desperation for his dad to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as ever for reading, comments, kudos etc.   
> There’s a couple more chapters to go, however, I’m off to the land of no wifi (I can feel the shakes starting now) and won’t be able to update for a couple of weeks. I had hoped to post it before I go, but haven’t managed to edit the draft to my satisfaction yet. Anyway, hopefully the wait is worth it, and you’ll forgive me for leaving you with a cliff hanger…


	8. chapter seven

_D’Artagnan was going to be burned, and he fought like a man possessed to get free as the flames crept closer, licking at his boots now, the heat intense against his skin. His mother’s screams surrounded him. The eyes of a monster watched it all. And he shouted in desperation for his dad to save him._

xxx

Aramis was depending on the fact that building a pyre would take time. It was the only thing that was driving him, keeping the panic in check as he urged his horse forward through the city crowds. The Catholic rites to burning of witches surely took time, the process of prayer and salutations, the ritual involved with any high Catholic service. He had never witnessed a burning himself, would never choose to be a part of a church that even believed in self-flagellation let alone burnings as punishment. His faith had always involved an image of a loving God and he couldn’t see where burnings fit in with that. But Aramis thanked God now for the long rituals of Catholicism and then wondered if that was blasphemous. He quickly sought forgiveness as the crowds finally parted and he could dig the heels of his boots into the flank of his mare, urging her forward.

The Monastery of St Michael and St Matthew was outside of the city wall. It was set apart from the villages that surrounded it, it’s history long and storied with the rumours of all the parts of the Catholic church that had been falling from favour. Surrounded by forest on three sides, a river on the forth, it deliberately hid itself away from the modernising world around it, keeping firmly entrenched in the past.

Aramis had never visited the monastery, finding his comfort within the walls of the many churches in the city. However, he had heard the rumours ever since he had been in Paris. If the rumours were true, it was probably the only monastery in Paris that would allow such an act on its land. Hoping against hope that he had read the situation right and that he wasn't leading his brothers on a wild goose chase to the wrong monastery. That he hadn't condemned the young d'Artagnan to his death.

Aramis had never thought that the smell of burning could bring such relief and such dread all at once. They approached the monastery at speed, lazy smoke visible from some distance, drifting upwards from inside the large stone walls that surrounded the Monastery. A scream rent the air, piercing through the sounds of the forest that surrounded them, Aramis flinching at the sound as he aimed for the open gateway, ignoring the posted monks on the entrance in favour of riding straight through, Athos and Porthos by his sides. Shouts followed them from the monks, but nothing more harmful followed their progress.

Inside the stone walls, the church was flanked by the stone rooms of the monastery, stables to the left, the kitchen garden beside it. Aramis headed to the right where the smoke had been visible, another scream tearing through the air, spurring them on as they circled around the church, forced to slow as they navigated the unfamiliar territory.

As much as Aramis knew what a burning pyre would look like, the first sight of d’Artagnan, strung up on a central pyre with flames already burning around his trapped legs took his breath away. He moaned quietly in horror, hearing a sharply drawn breath from Athos and a loud, horrified curse from Porthos.

Tight ropes held d’Artagnan against a central stake, a large heap of wood at his feet burning merrily, filling the courtyard with the smell of charred wood, the smoke making Aramis’s eyes water and his nose to run as they drew closer. The piercing sound of d’Artagnan’s screams, the desperate fight he was having against the thick ropes that held him to the stake made them all shudder as they dismounted without waiting for their mounts to fully stop, breaking into a run.

Aramis saw Edwin, stood in front of the pyre, watching with a look of sick fascination. A large man, presumably his servant, stood blanked face at his side. Aramis ignored them for now, leaving Athos and Porthos to deal with them, hearing the singing sound of steel as they pulled their swords even above the crackling fire. Instead he veered to the back of the fire, seeking a part that was less alight, shuddering as another terrified, choke filled scream filled the air. He looked up, his eyes streaming, the smoke pulling a cough from his lungs, seeing d'Artagnan’s movements were weakening as the smoke surrounded him, choked him, more deadly than the flames climbing his legs.

There was no finesse in the movements as Aramis jumped atop the back of the bonfire where the flames had yet to find a path, feeling the wood shift unsteadily under foot. He didn’t stop to think, simply used his full weight to bring the central stake that d’Artagnan was bound to crashing backward, the only plan to remove d’Artagnan from the fire’s deadly path. Porthos appeared as Aramis stamped out a flaming log that dared fall by him, his own eyes already red and streaming from the smoke. They moved as one, shedding jackets to fling over d’Artagnan’s legs, Porthos stamping at the rest of the blazing wood that had fallen from the pyre as Aramis beat out the smouldering breeches.

The smell of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils as he lifted the coat, making him gag slightly before he got a hold of the reaction. D'Artagnan was coughing, choking, fighting against the ropes that still held him, lost in the terror and pain of the fire. Porthos was hacking away with his short sword at the ropes that bound d’Artagnan’s hands to the stake. Aramis took in the burnt skin, relieved that the leather boots had offered some protection but the fabric stuck tightly to the shin of the leg and he could not see how extensive the burns were at first look. There was little he could do though, when d’Artagnan was still thrashing against the bindings that held him, and he left trying to assess the burns to try and calm d’Artagnan down as Porthos worked steadily through the thick ropes. Cupping d'Artagnan's face in both hands, he held the man steady, calming some of the furious movements as he took in the large and spreading bruise that burst in sickening blacks and purples over d’Artagnan’s temple, deeper welts that formed the shape of a fist spoke of some kind of metal knuckle dusters. The injury helped explain how the young man had been caught and then transported without putting up more of a fight and Aramis knew he would have to be as careful of concussion as he had to be with the burns.

For the moment, though, Aramis simply moved to comfort the scared young man. ‘Calm, d’Artagnan. breathe, you're safe, you're ok. calm.' A litany of words fell from his lips though d’Artagnan continued to fight.

Porthos finally got the ropes binding his arms and torso free, and d'Artagnan lurched up, away from the central stake that had held him tightly, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. Aramis caught him easily before he could try and fight against the ropes still holding his legs, holding the shaking body close, reassuring him with touch. Porthos freed the rope from around his legs, and Aramis looked up as Athos settled beside them. ‘Edwin?’

Athos met his look, ‘dealt with.’ He said shortly. Aramis studied him for a moment, taking in the impassive look, as Porthos ran a calming hand over d’Artagnan’s head. Aramis allowed a simple sigh, holding d’Artagnan tight for a moment more before he nodded at Athos, settling d’Artagnan back and onto Athos so that he could have a proper look at the various injuries.

He examined the head injury a little more. D’Artagnan was quieter, his face flushed from the heat of the fire, his eyes red and streaming. The smoke was still thick, even here, behind the worst of the fire and they were all coughing a little now. His eyes were glazed over, and didn’t seem to be comprehending what was happening or where he was. He hadn’t moved from where he was resting against Athos who held him gently.

‘D’Artagnan?’ Aramis asked, hoping for some recognition. Whether solely the head injury, or having a childhood nightmare come so brutally to life, d’Artagnan didn’t respond to his voice. Heaving a worried sigh, Aramis knew there was little he could do at that moment for a concussion so he moved to examine the burns.

‘Well?’ Porthos eventually demanded, and Aramis looked up to find he was being watched closely by him and Athos. Porthos, at least, was clearly breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of burnt flesh that rose from the legs. Aramis could see that the skin was red and blistered, clear fluid leaking from some, where the blisters had burnt. They spread across the front of d’Artagnan’s shins, reaching almost to the knee, but had not had time to move further, and had not spread to the back of the calf or higher.

It could have been a whole lot worse, Aramis knew, and he let out a small sigh of relief before he spoke. ‘The river.’ Porthos simply raised an eyebrow in question at the seemingly non-sequencer. ‘We need to cool the burns.’ Aramis explained.

Porthos remained silent as he simply moved to immediately put the words into action. Between him and Athos they carried d’Artagnan, keeping him upright as he started coughing more relentlessly in the fresher air, following Aramis towards a back gate in the wall. Away from the still burning pyre, Aramis could hear the sounds of the river more clearly, relieved as his stinging eyes calmed and he could cleanse his own lungs with the clearer air.

The autumnal rains had filled the rivers, and it was higher than Aramis was expecting, making him second guess his plan as he saw how fast it was running. ‘Over there.’ Athos said, pointing with his chin to a larger rock, around 20 yards along the bank of the river, stood sentry in the shallows of the raging river. Its bulk caused a natural break in the flow of the river, and whilst it raged against the rock, the river slowed to a trickle in its shadow. Aramis still warned them to hold d’Artagnan tight.

Athos and Porthos lowered d’Artagnan to sit on the bank, all of them cringing at d’Artagnan’s ragged cry of pain when Aramis helped Athos lower the burnt legs into the cool water. Aramis was pleased that d’Artagnan immediately tried to fight the hold, to escape the river, the natural tendency to escape from pain still present. The cry caused him to start coughing again as it pulled at his smoke ravaged throat, Athos and Porthos holding him steady.

He eventually settled as the coolness appeared to bring some relief to the burning pain. Aramis stripped off his boots and pulled up his breeches before wading into the frigid water, stepping carefully on the rocky bottom of the river. He pulled off d’Artagnan’s boots, glad to see that his hopes held true and that the skin beneath them had been protected from the worst of the fire. However, for the first time he was witness to the old burn scars, rippled skin stretching down the lower third of d’Artagnan’s legs, the burns of his youth that none of them had ever seen before. He ignored them now in favour of easing the breeches away from the newly burnt skin, making sure none of the fabric stuck to the skin, allowing the cold water to cleanse the burnt skin.

They kept d’Artagnan in the river until he finally showed some sense of awareness, and his lips began to turn blue. Aramis had stepped out and dried off as much as he could, redressing as the temperature of the day dropped with the receding sun. He helped the others to pull d’Artagnan to a grassy flat nearby, away from the shadow cast by the large monastery wall, using whatever weak sunshine was available. Aramis half considered asking the resident monks for help, but couldn’t bring himself to go anywhere near the church, to return to the scene of the burning pyre, and the monks that could stand by and let such a horrific act occur on their land. Porthos went to find their horses as Aramis turned his attention to d’Artagnan.

Athos had sat behind d’Artagnan, holding him close and grounding him. D’Artagnan was aware enough to catch Aramis’s eye, a wince appearing briefly as he squinted in his direction. ‘How’s the head?’ Aramis asked, looking at the nasty bruising once again.

‘Hurts.’ D’Artagnan answered, his throat sounding wrecked.

‘Not surprised. Looks like you were hit with a mallet.’ Aramis commented.

‘Feels like it.’ D’Artagnan said, his head lulling unsteadily against Athos’s shoulder. Athos reached to steady him slightly.

Porthos walked up leading Aramis’s horse by the reins, the other 2 mounts following sedately behind. The horses didn’t appear to like the smell of burnt flesh any more than they had, and stayed away. Aramis wasn’t bothered, he was just after the contents of the saddle bags.  D’Artagnan flinched as Aramis used an old shirt to dry the legs off as best he could, seeing the young man was beginning to shiver with the cold now, despite the weak autumnal sun.

The burns were bright red, blistered in places, covering the shins but Aramis was pleased to see they weren’t as extensive as he had first feared. The old scar tissue stood out, pale and white against the new red burns and Aramis felt a flash of intense anger that such an event had been allowed to be repeated to the same person. Athos and Porthos had also seen the old burn scars, and Aramis was sure he saw a slight flush stain d’Artagnan’s cheeks at being exposed. How d’Artagnan had not lost his legs, or any movement from the extensive burns was a miracle. That the senior d’Artagnan had managed to provide such care and escape on horseback at the same time was even more impressive.

‘I’m going to wrap them up and we can get back to the garrison.’ Aramis told them all. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for the pain.’ He added to d’Artagnan.

‘Not so bad now.’ D’Artagnan reassured him, coughing slightly as leant back into Athos, looking like all the energy had been sapped from him, bruising stark against his wane face. His voice was hoarse, and painful to listen to. Porthos picked up a waterskin, filling it in the river and offered it to d’Artagnan to try and soothe his throat.

‘That was his son. I…didn’t know.’ D’Artagnan sounded as wrecked as he looked.

‘We were remiss in not telling you. I assumed you knew.’ Athos said.

D’Artagnan shook his head as he heard the self-reproach in Athos’s voice, quick to reassure his mentor despite the lingering effects of the head injury. ‘Couldn’t have known.’ He countered, ‘Doesn’t matter. His son. My…’ he coughed again, ‘brother. Didn’t see that coming.’

‘The Duke is under guard at the palace.’ Porthos told d’Artagnan as Aramis completed one wrapping, moving to the other leg.

‘Edwin and him will stand trial’ Athos informed d’Artagnan. Aramis couldn’t help but look up in surprise; he had assumed that Athos had killed the young man. ‘unfortunately I had to kill the guard.’

D’Artagnan shrugged, and it was clear that he wasn’t able to fully comprehend all that had happened, and all that it meant at that moment. That there was finally some chance at a hint of justice. Understanding, and dealing with the fall out, Aramis knew, would come later. ‘Come, we must get back to the garrison before night fall.’ He instructed, Porthos helping to pull d’Artagnan’s boots back on.

Athos nodded. ‘He can ride with me.’ He looked between Porthos and Aramis ‘one of you can bring Edwin.’ He didn’t look like he cared much how the young man was brought back.

The trip back was slightly less frantic, and though it was highly tempting to race back, they kept the pace so that Edwin only had to trot to keep up. It was clear d’Artagnan found the ride increasingly painful as he shook off the effects of the head injury, though they knew better than to expect him to complain. Mainly he appeared to have escaped into himself, quiet and still on Athos’s horse. Too quiet, and too still for any of them to find comfortable.

Eventually they were able to hand Edwin over to some confused musketeers at the garrison, instructing them to take him immediately to the Chatelet on the charge of attempted murder. The two older musketeers nodded, only needing a look at d’Artagnan to understand some of what had happened even if they didn’t know the full story. Aramis saw their hardening looks as they put enough of the story together to know that it had been a fellow musketeer at risk.

Eventually they were able to settle d’Artagnan in his own bed, Athos forcing some pain relieving draft into him before Aramis smothered the burns in a cooling poultice, wrapping them again in fresh linin. The big risk now would be infection, and Aramis was determined to do everything he could to prevent further problems. He checked over the head injury once more before spreading the remaining poultice thickly over it, relieved to find that underneath the spectacular black bruise the skull was intact.

‘How have we never seen the scars before?’ Porthos asked once d’Artagnan had succumbed to the effects of the draft and slipped into an uneasy sleep. Aramis sat opposite Porthos at the small table in d’Artagnan’s room, both of them digging into bowls of stew and pieces of crusty bread, hungry now the excitement was fading. Athos had left soon after d’Artagnan had fallen asleep, going to somehow report all that had happened to Treville, to explain why they had left the Duke under the control of the Red Guard, and why his son was currently shackled in the Chatelet. There would be no way of keeping d’Artagnan’s childhood a secret now, whether he wanted it or not. Aramis did not envy Athos’s task at all.

He shrugged belatedly in response to Porthos’s question. ‘He hid everything.’

‘But, they’re not exactly subtle.’ Porthos pointed out, popping a chunk of hard cheese into his mouth.

‘When you spend your life being told you must not tell anyone an event for fear of your life, I expect it comes naturally after a while.’ Aramis said, chewing thoughtfully on a warm crust of bread.

‘What do you think will happen now?’ Porthos asked.

‘That will depend on the whim of the King.’ Aramis said, Porthos raising an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic bitterness that was in his tone.

‘Edwin- I mean, no one can deny he tried to kill d’Artagnan.’ Porthos pointed out.

‘No, Edwin will pay for his crimes.’

‘He should hang.’

‘And if he was a common man, he would.’ Aramis agreed. ‘But if daddy pays enough to the crown he will spend his life in the Bastille.’ The bitterness was back. ‘But the Duke…’

‘He will deny everything.’ Porthos finished for him.

Aramis simply nodded in agreement. ‘And we’re back to the start. His word against d’Artagnan. A nobleman against the childhood memories of a commoner.’

‘s’not right.’ Porthos groused.

‘No, my friend, it is not.’ Aramis said with a large sigh.

~~

Reluctant to leave d’Artagnan alone, they set up a schedule for watch before retiring that night, worried should he be in pain, or the nightmares return. Athos gladly took the middle shift, unable to get the image of d’Artagnan strung up in the fire out of his mind. He tried to put the events of the weekend into some order, to reflect on all that had happened, all that had been revealed, but it was hard to fully comprehend it all. His thoughts were interrupted by a brief knock on the door, Treville pushing the door open. Athos nodded as he studied his face, searching the blankness for answers ‘Captain.'

Athos had told Treville everything earlier. The captain had listened in silence, asked a few questions to clarify, then had simply gone to the palace to seek an audience with the king. There had been no comment, no opinion expressed at the time, leaving Athos to wonder on his reaction. That had been many hours ago, and Athos was surprised that the captain had obviously only just returned. He had assumed Treville was simply waiting for the morning to talk further.

'How is he?' Treville asked, studying the impressive bruising on d’Artagnan’s face.

Athos looked over at d'Artagnan as if seeking the answer to his questions. 'He'll recover.’ He eventually said. ‘physically.'

'The burns?'

Athos shrugged. 'Aramis assures me they are not as bad as they could have been.' He struggled to shut of the inevitable image of d’Artagnan, the sound of his screams as the fire licked at his legs. The smell of burning flesh would long linger in his nostrils.

'Has he woken?' Treville asked as he settled in a chair opposite him.

'Briefly, a few times.'

'Did he say much?'

'No.’ Athos said shortly, turning the conversation to what he thought of as the more important matters. ‘What happened at the palace?’

Treville let out a weary sigh. Athos took pity on him, knowing that the king was never easy to deal with, and stood to fetch the captain a glass of red wine, pouring one for himself as he was there. The captain accepted it gratefully, taking a large gulp. ‘I waited a few hours before the king could see me.’

‘I’m sure he was very busy.’ Athos said sardonically.

Treville ignored the tone. ‘He listened, and agreed that Edwin should stand trial. He will go before the magistrate in the morning.’

Athos nodded, but knew that was always going to be the case for Edwin. There were many witnesses to the event, no denying that the young noble had attempted to kill a musketeer in a most hideous way. ‘And the Duke?’

Treville sighed again. The simple shake of the head told Athos all that he needed to know. ‘It is the memories of a child against the Duke, and the king has refused to even consider a trial. He said it was a ridiculous accusation to make, and he would hear no more. I protested as much as I could.’

Athos knew it was a fine line that Treville balanced on every day when dealing with the king. Athos knew he would have pushed as much as he thought he could get away with, pushing the King to hear what was being said. It was disappointing, though, that after everything that had happened, the Duke would still walk away. Without any son, maybe, but still disappointing.

‘You, Aramis and Porthos are required at the court at nine to stand as witness.’ Treville told him.

‘Does the King seek the death penalty?’ Athos asked.

Another shake of the head, and Athos couldn’t hide the frustration. ‘If found guilty, Edwin will be sentenced to the Bastille.’ Treville said quietly.

It wasn’t enough. It was a cruel joke. After everything that had happened, after setting a man on fire and standing to watch him burn, and all he would get in return was a luxurious stay in the Bastille as punishment. Even then, the Duke would likely pay enough to have him released eventually.

As if sensing his emotion, d’Artagnan stirred, his head shaking back and forth, eyes moving restlessly between closed eyelids. Athos blew out a forceful sigh before laying a gentle grounding hand on the man’s shoulder, watching him until he settled again. He met Treville’s look, saw understanding there. ‘I know.’ Treville simply said. ‘It’s not enough, but it has to mean something.’

Athos just shook his head, too angry to reply. He wanted to scream and rage at the injustice. He wanted to hit something, preferably Edwin and his father for everything they had done. He thought of having Edwin under his sword, just that afternoon. The snivelling young man who had pleaded for his life when he thought Athos was about to take it. Athos could have easily killed him then, brought his own brand of justice or vengeance against the man for all that he had done. He hadn’t, and as much as he knew it was the right thing, that he couldn’t act as judge and executioner, a deep regret burned his soul at that moment. Only because he knew it would disturb d’Artagnan’s rest did he not yell out his frustration.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back into the land of wifi. And after deleting over a thousand junk email I thought I should post the next part of this. hope you enjoyed it and think it was worth the wait!  
> Hopefully not such a long wait for the next part!


	9. chapter eight-epilogue

Epilogue

Their first mission out of the city was dull. There was no other word for it. Tasked with delivering a royal summons to a Comte who had been misbehaving in the northern part of the country, they hadn’t even been expected to escort the Comte back. No, the nobleman had been given a week to get his affairs in order, and was expected at the palace in no less than 10 days. If he did not show up under his own steam, the musketeers would be gracing his door with their presence once again and take him there forcibly. The four of them had impressed on the Comte that it would definitely be in his best interest if he didn’t make them journey back to arrest him. That in such circumstances it wouldn’t be the king that he had to fear.

The Comte had paled, gulped, and they could only hope he would take the warning as seriously as it had been meant. Now they were journeying back to Paris, slowly. Treville had issued the orders of the delivery with only a vague timetable. The four of them were hardly needed for such a simple delivery, and whilst Treville had said it was to get them out from under foot, they knew it was his way of gifting them time away from the pressures of Paris. They had stopped for the night on the way back to Paris, in a small copse, unable to find an inn as the light had quickly failed, setting up camp amongst the small shelter of the trees.

The events of last month would leave deeper scars than the physical ones that marred d’Artagnan’s legs. They had healed quickly with the vigour of youth and the blessing of no infection, though they were still red, the deeper patches obviously still painful at times. The bruising and resultant concussion from the head injury had produced lingering headaches, and helped blunt and dull the response when they had had to explain that the Duke would not be put on trial.

D’Artagnan had insisted on attending Edwin’s sentencing, though they all knew what the likely outcome would be. Athos had tried to persuade him to leave it be, but even so soon after receiving the burns, the horrific bruising still marring his face, Athos hadn’t been able to stop the stubborn young man.

Aramis remembered it now as he watched the flickering flames dance idly in the small breeze. He, Athos and Porthos had all attended the trial as witnesses, had seen the defiant young man on the stand. Edwin had never denied his actions. Had never even tried to please his innocence. He claimed he had only done what was right by God and nature and none of them wanted d’Artagnan to witness even a small part of the trial and to have to hear the claims again that he should be dead.

D’Artagnan, however, would not hear it. Could not hear it perhaps. 20 years after his mother had been burnt to death, and he wanted to see at least a partial justice. It wasn’t enough, of course. And the Duke was still free. But Aramis couldn’t deny that perhaps d’Artagnan needed to see some small part of justice he had been denied so long. Of course, he had impressed on the stubborn young man the need to take it easy, to sit down at all times, to take the pain potions and return to his bed as soon as the sentencing was finished. D’Artagnan had agreed to everything.

His real father had been present at the sentencing, as he had been at all parts of the trial. He had never pled his son’s innocence. Had never even looked at his son, as far as Aramis could tell. He looked smaller, older than his sixty years, a broken man who would be returning to Toulouse under a cloud of distrust and rumour about what had happened. He had lost everything, and perhaps that had to be enough.

D’Artagnan had followed instruction, sitting quietly and listening to the magistrate pass judgement. He was pale, still, under the bruises, and Aramis knew he shouldn’t be here so soon after the events, that it was wrong to make him listen to a retelling of Edwin’s crimes. The only saving grace was the magistrate had refused to let Edwin speak again, sparing d’Artagnan his hatred at least.

Edwin as predicted was sentenced to imprisonment in the relative luxury of the Bastille rather than the Chatelet where he would have been mixing with all other criminals. He should have been sentenced to death, and Aramis could see the shadows of regret again on Athos’s face as they listened, that he hadn’t carried out the sentence himself in the courtyard.  Imprisonment felt too minor a punishment for such a cruel event.

After the trial, as they talked to Treville and a few of the guards in the loud courtroom, d’Artagnan had managed to walk out unnoticed. A feat in itself, considering they had all been paying attention to their youngest, ready to whisk him back to the garrison as soon as possible. D’Artagnan had waited for all of their attention to be elsewhere before simply melting into the crowded room.

It hadn’t taken much to find him.

The room next to the courtyard was for relatives to await the criminals, to have a last word before whatever sentence was carried out. D’Artagnan stood in the middle of quiet room, staring down at his father. Aramis had moved to interrupt, but Athos had reached for him, shook his head, recognising that this might be the last time d’Artagnan was able to have his say in the whole manner.

From the profile view he had of D’Artagnan’s face, Aramis could see it was pinched with pain, and guessed his legs were starting to trouble him more stood upright. The bruising made him look vulnerable, but Aramis knew better than to be fooled by the appearance.

D’Artagnan was strong. Oh, Aramis had known that before the events that weekend, but had just had the view reinforced with steel. D’Artagnan didn’t just beat the odds, he broke them into submission every time with his sheer bloody mindedness. He should have died with his mother, aged five. He should have been traumatised by a fire that had left such deep physical scars on his legs. He should have run screaming from the person that had caused all that, but instead he stood, and looked, examining the man as if trying to work out exactly what he is. Aramis wondered what he was looking for.

‘Please, Hen…Charles…d’Artagnan.’ The man was pleading with d’Artagnan when they had arrived, seeming to fear something about d’Artagnan though he held no weapon against him.

‘What are you asking for?’ D’Artagnan asked, and he sounded genuinely curious. Aramis wished he could see the young man’s face properly.

‘I didn’t know Edwin would do that.’ The Duke sounded desperate.

D’Artagnan shrugged, though the action was sharp and carried weight. ‘He’s in prison for his crimes. And my brothers got to me in time.’ D’Artagnan’s overly pleasant agreement sent a chill down Aramis’s spine.

‘Yes, you are well.’ The man jumped on the words, like a dying man to his rescuer.

‘You’re a fool!’ The change of tone, the harsh words seemed to take the Duke by surprise. ‘You are no better than your son though you plead his case. You believe your actions just.’

‘I…I’

‘I want to kill you.’ D’Artagnan admitted. ‘I knew you were alive still, but never thought I would have to see you again. I sometimes wondered what it would be like to see you again, whether you would you regret your actions at all. But you don’t, do you?’ D’Artagnan cocked his head to the side. ‘You honestly still think that your actions were right.’ He shifted his weight, looking for a more comfortable position to ease the pressure on the burns, and Aramis wanted to make him sit, at least, but he knew that he couldn’t interrupt now.

‘I lost my mother that day, but I gained a real father. It might not have been the fairest exchange, but I grew up with a man who loved me as his real son. And when he died, I found the rest of my family here in Paris. I wasn’t sure I could be anything but angry at you, but truly I pity you. You wanted everything to be perfect, but when God didn’t give you a son with your wife, you tried your own plan instead. And when God gave your wife a son, you tried to right your wrong the only way you knew how, by erasing the mistakes you had made. And now you have no sons. You have no one who will carry on your name, because I will see to it that Edwin is never allowed to inherit your name. You will be returning to your home alone because you played God and lost everything. No wonder your son turned into a monster!’

‘I never meant for him to hurt you.’

‘Why not? You tried it first.’ D’Artagnan flung back. ‘like father, like son, right? Well my father will forever be Alexandre d’Artagnan, my brothers will always be at my back, and you have no one. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. But at least while I am assured of my family, you have nothing left of yours.’

No one had said anything, the Duke’s snivelling the only sound as they had turned and followed d’Artagnan out. D’Artagnan had made it as far as the courtyard before he stumbled slightly, Athos catching him easily and keeping him upright, leading the young man to the stables as he was blinded with tears.

From that day, d’Artagnan had flung himself back into training, in the end Treville running out of excuses to keep him off guard duty at the palace, or off patrol. The others tried to protest but quickly realised that the physical activity helped to exhaust d’Artagnan enough that the dreams did seem to improve. When this mission had come up, Treville had quickly ordered them all on the simple delivery, a way out of Paris, and a break from the memories the city now held.

The dreams had, almost inevitably, been brutal. Watching d’Artagnan as he slept now, they had been aware that the physically easy mission, and sleeping mostly outside wasn’t helping them. Aramis was waiting for the nightmares that night, ready to wake d’Artagnan as they had all been doing as soon as there was any sign of them returning. Watching him now, d’Artagnan was restless but that wasn’t unusual, tossing and turning under his cover as he slept. Porthos, who was asleep sitting against a tree next to him reached out and gave him a none too gentle shove, something all of them had done a time or two when the restlessness disturbed their sleep (there was a reason no one liked to share a bed with the young Gascon)

Aramis couldn’t help but laugh, covering the sound with his hand as d’Artagnan startled awake, looking affronted at Porthos as he realised what had happened. Porthos, or course, had settled back to sleep just as quickly, as if nothing had happened. D’Artagnan huffed, clearly considering revenge until he realised that Aramis was watching.

‘You were restless.’ Aramis explained, not bothering to hide his grin.

D’Artagnan huffed again and sat up, moving closer to share the log Aramis was sat on. ‘Was having a strange dream, anyway.’ Aramis waited for him to continue but d’Artagnan was studying the fire that burnt low, warding off the cold of the night, reminding them all that winter would soon begin in earnest.

Aramis bumped his shoulder, forcing his look, and his mind, away from the fire. ‘You can sleep more.’

‘I’m meant to be relieving you anyway.’ D’Artagnan said with a shake of his head.

Aramis rolled his eyes. ‘And I suppose you promise to wake Athos in a couple of hours.’

D’Artagnan turned wounded eyes on him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He said innocently.

Aramis snorted quietly in response before turning a serious look at the young man. ‘You will wake Athos.’

D’Artagnan quickly bobbed his head. Aramis glared at him threateningly. D’Artagnan nodded more.

Aramis was still not surprised to wake the next morning and find d’Artagnan had left Athos to sleep. Not that he could really blame him. Staying awake seemed much easier than facing the dreams that lurked in sleep. He still cuffed d’Artagnan over the back of the head as he passed by him, pulling an affronted look from the young man, though he mostly looked relieved when Aramis squeezed his shoulder in silent support as well.

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this story. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Hopefully I will be back at some point with a new story. I have an idea, a sort of follow on The Dauphin that is currently percolating in my mind. Hopefully it will eventually begin to form a more complete narrative, and I’ll have time to write it. Anyway, thank you once again for reading and commenting and leaving kudos- they all mean so much to me.


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